All you gotta do is cross the line
by me.fergie
Summary: Sherlock takes on a case that brings him face to face with a notorious blackmailer. A rather unfortunate incident makes him turn to the least likely person to help him. But Jim will... or will he?
1. Prologue: Our Love, his trust

Hi. I am back with a new story.

Now, this story is loosely based on the original Arthur Conan Doyle Story _Charles Augustus Milverton. _I read it recently, and then the plot bunny bit. I hope you will enjoy this story as much as you did my last story. There will be an OC later on, but don't worry, it's not the woman described in this prologue (not that Mary Sueish). I just wanted to set the mood here. As for the situation, this is Post-Reichenbach, and Post-Sherlock's return. I won't give any explanation on how he faked his death, because frankly, I don't want to speculate. Now, long story short: let's begin.

**Disclaimer: I only own my OCs. The original story of _Charles Augustus Milverton _belongs to Arthur Conan Doyle_, Sherlock _to the writers of the show and the BBC. I am not making any profit. The title of this fic is from _The Other Side _by Bruno Mars, Cee Lo Green and B.O.B.  
><strong>

**Title of this chapter is taken from Rihanna's _Unfaithful. _  
><strong>

* * *

><p><strong>Prologue: Our love, his trust<strong>

_7 days to a scandal_**  
><strong>

The woman was beautiful. Long, black hair going as far down as her waist, big brown eyes, her skin the colour of cinnamon. But that was not all that was to her. She was one of the privileged few who did not only possess extraordinary looks; she was also intelligent. A cardiac surgeon, one of the best in the country. At the age of forty-two, she had achieved everything; a career, two children who promised to be just as beautiful and smart as their mother, and a loving and devoted husband, who was engaged in politics. And if all that together wasn't enough, both of them were the sort of good-hearted people this society needs more than anything else. Rakesha Reynolds went to Africa at least four times a year, offering her services as a doctor to those less privileged than her. She had never forgotten where she came from, and how women still suffered in her home country. Her husband, Ron, remained in England, campaigning for his party, and never letting people in the United Kingdom forget that there were in fact human beings in Africa who needed their help. Both of them knew it was as much as they could do to give something back.

As Rakesha now paced through her bedroom, alone, as her husband was currently in Sweden, meeting important people, she suddenly felt her perfect world crumbling. One mistake, she thought. One simple, stupid mistake, and yet it was enough to ruin everything. It wasn't that she didn't love her husband. He was an angel, ever so supportive. But she had been so lonely, sometimes. So she had let herself fall into the arms of another man. Unfortunately said man had turned out a bastard. A hidden camera in the bedroom. And now, she was holding a photograph in her hand; her and the bastard, in the most compromising position there was.

And a note, saying, _If you don't want the world to find out about us, convince your charming husband to resign, and pay me __£ 10.000. Love, Charlie._

Rakesha sat down on the bed, crying. Not only did she have not enough money to pay him; if the world found out she had been sleeping with a crook, it would cause a scandal that would destroy Ron's career. And even if he resigned, who would assure them that Charlie Milverton would in fact destroy the evidence of their encounter? Not to mention the fact that she had to tell her husband about that fatal night. She would lose everything.

Desperate as she was, she called her best friend, "Molly? I'm in trouble." She told her everything, from the moment she had met Charlie in a shady bar till the moment she had opened the envelope with the photograph. "I don't know what to do… I'm so desperate."

The response of her best friend surprised her, "I know somebody who can help you. Did you ever hear of Sherlock Holmes?"

* * *

><p><strong>As I said, don't worry, Rakesha is not the OC I've been talking about. Now, I would really appreciate reviews and all. <strong>


	2. It's not a matter of you versus me

**And here we are with a new chapter. I don't know whether anyone likes it, but oh well... **

**Disclaimer: See Chapter One. Plus, the title of this chapter is taken from _My favourite Game _by The Cardigans  
><strong>

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter One: It's not a matter of you versus me<br>**

_14:02 P.M. - 7 days to a scandal_

Molly Hooper hesitated before she entered the lab in which Sherlock was currently picking apart a… hell, she had no idea. Some gadget she didn't really understand. Since Rakesha had called her this morning, Molly had wondered how she could convince Sherlock to help her friend. She had met Rakesha when the woman had operated on Molly grand-mother, and since then they had become best friends. Molly did not have many friends, but being able to talk to Rakesha, even help her sometimes, had added to her life: Rakesha had always listened to her problems, and how happy had she been when Molly had told her about Jim from I.T., her new boyfriend. But Molly had never told her about Sherlock, mainly because she had been too ashamed. But now, Rakesha was in trouble, and Molly felt obliged… no, _wanted_ to help her. And Sherlock was the only one she could think of. Of course, there was Lestrade, and Lestrade was a discreet cop, but Rakesha didn't want to tell police about it, and Molly respected her wish. So, she would go and talk to Sherlock about it. How she would convince Sherlock to take over the case she didn't know. But she hoped that, because they had been "friends" for so long, and because she had helped him, that he would maybe, just maybe, help her this time.

So, she knocked on the door and entered, "Hello Sherlock… I brought coffee." No response. "Don't you want coffee?" No response. Molly felt a bit silly by now. "Listen, Sherlock… I… have this friend… and she needs help… and I was wondering…"

"Molly, please." Sherlock didn't even look at her.

"Oh. Okay. Well…" she cleared her throat. "I have this friend, Rakesha. She… sort of did something wrong, and now somebody is blackmailing her…"

"Tell her to pay him."

"Yeah, see, that's the problem. She doesn't have the money. And he wants her husband to resign from his… job. I know this isn't a very interesting case, but…"

"You're right." Sherlock still had not shifted in his position.

"…but she is my friend, and she needs your help, and I would really appreciate it if you just looked into the case…."

"This isn't a real case, Molly. Oh, you have coffee."

"Well, it might not be for you, but it is for her." Molly kept a firm grip on the cup she was holding, so that Sherlock couldn't get it. "And I think that you should really… help her." She lowered her head, knowing she wasn't really convincing. Of course, she could tell Sherlock that she had helped him, so it would be only fair for him to help her now, but Sherlock didn't think along those lines, so it wouldn't make any sense to even try it. "Please, Sherlock. If this goes wrong, her whole life is ruined. And her husband's."

Sherlock gave up on the coffee, "Well, Molly, I guess then she shouldn't have done what she has done. I have to leave now, this isn't getting me anywhere. And remember, the next heart attack that comes in, I need to see the body." He grabbed his scarf.

But Molly stopped him, "Sherlock, this woman needs your help."

"Why not go to Lestrade? I'm sure he would love to help a damsel in distress. You know I don't take cases like this. It's usually very frustrating because there are no challenges, and people involved tend to lie to me, which gives me a lot of unnecessary extra work. Tell her to go to the police."

"Her husband is in politics. If they go to the police and something leaks, it's the end of his career as well as their marriage. Sherlock, she is a wonderful woman, the two of them do so much for Africa and all, and, you know…" She lowered her head again, "I wish you would just help."

Sherlock rolled his eyes, "Okay. You know what? I'll send John over. He will take over. This is a negotiation thing, and John is apparently quite good at that. You'll be in safe hands."

"My friend said she tried to negotiate with the guy, but to no avail."

"Yes, I believe that, but I really don't believe a woman can properly do this without being overwhelmed by _emotions_. Tell John the whole story. Does she know who the man blackmailing her is? Where he lives?"

Molly nodded, happy that she had at least convinced Sherlock to help Rakesha, if only passive. "She said he lives in Kensington, so he must be pretty rich. Wonder why he would want all this money. Anyways, she said his name is Charlie Milverton." Molly immediately noticed the change in Sherlock. He had been in the process of putting his coat on, but froze immediately when he heard the name. "Did I say something wrong?"

Sherlock's face didn't twitch at all, but his voice had that special something to it when he said, "Changed my mind. I will take the case. Did he give an ultimatum?"

"A week from now." Molly was more than surprised when she actually detected interest in the detective's voice.

"Tell your friend to come see me at Baker Street tonight. And please, tell her to tell me the truth and speak coherent. And remember the heart-attack victims."

Molly was not entirely sure, but she thought she saw a smile on Sherlock lips when he left the lab.

* * *

><p>"Charlie Milverton?" John watched Sherlock as he absentmindedly played his violin.<p>

"Exactly."

"The name doesn't ring a bell."

"Professional blackmailer."

"How do you know him?" No answer. John decided that it was better not to ask further questions. It was obvious that Sherlock was thinking, and he had learned along the years that Sherlock rarely gave useful answers, if any, when he was absorbed in his own thoughts. So he just got up, prepared two cups of tea for himself and Sherlock, and then sat in his armchair again, reading the newspaper. Not much was happening in London these days. Since the death of Jim Moriarty and the disappearance of Sebastian Moran –hell knew how he had escaped Mycroft's people-, London had calmed down massively. John didn't mind it too much, but Sherlock had been nearly insufferable since he'd come back. He had started doing all kinds of funny experiments lately, and John was pretty sure at least one of them had involved a brain, judging from the grey matter he had found in the sink. He had decided not to ask Sherlock anymore about what he was doing in the kitchen, just made him promise he would clean any involved dishes.

* * *

><p>The ring of the bell at precisely 6:30 P.M. interrupted the cosiness of the evening. Sherlock didn't react, so John murmured, "I'll get it for you, shall I?" No answer. John rolled his eyes and opened the door.<p>

In front of him stood a woman. Now, John Watson had met many women in his life, but she stood out. Not because she was beautiful, although she definitely was. But there was a certain warmth radiating from her which immediately caught his attention. She smiled shyly, showing beautiful white teeth, "Hello. Are you Mr Sherlock Holmes?"

John smiled back, "Yes… I mean, no, I… I'm not. I'm Dr John Watson." He shook his head, "I mean, just John Watson. I'm sorry. How can I help you?"

She seemed rather amused, "Dr Watson… Dr Rakesha Reynolds. Just Rakesha, please. I have an appointment with Mr Holmes. Is he in?"

"Yes, come in please." He let her in and brought her to the living room, "Sherlock, this is Rakesha Reynolds. She says she's got an appointment with you."

Rakesha walked to the chair in which Sherlock was sitting and reached out a hand, "Mr Holmes. I am Rakesha Reynolds. Thank you so much for agreeing to speak to me. Molly has told me so many great things about you."

Sherlock got up and shook her hand, "Just, Sherlock, please. Ms Reynolds…"

"Rakesha, please."

"Rakesha. Please have a seat. Now, we both want this to be over as soon as possible, so please, tell me your story."

Rakesha sat down. Apparently Molly had told her to not pussyfoot around the subject. She started, "I met Charlie Milverton in a bar when my husband was out of town. I was lonely, so I slept with him." John nearly choked on his tea. "Yeah, I normally don't do that. Anyways, we went to his flat, and slept with him. And now I got these pictures." She handed an envelope to Sherlock. "He wants a ridiculous sum of money and my husband to resign, or else he will publish the pictures."

Sherlock handed the pictures to John without looking at them, "If your husband is forced to resign either way, why go to the trouble of consulting me?"

Rakesha sighed, "Well, it's quite an egoistic reason at first glance; of course I don't want my husband to know what I did. I made a mistake, and I am really sorry about it. But since he will find out anyways… The real problem is that my husband and I are both very prominent figures in our fight to make things better in Africa, where I am from. I fear that if it causes a scandal, which it surely will, that it will damage our reputation so much that it will have a bad effect on our cause."

"Oh, it will definitely." Sherlock said. "Why would Charlie Milverton want your husband to resign? Some old grudge?"

"I really don't know. Charlie isn't somebody who talks a lot. I tried to negotiate, but… to no avail." The first tears were now standing in her eyes. "I don't know what to do anymore. Oh, thanks…" she took the handkerchief John offered her. "Please, Sherlock, I need your help. I know you normally don't take cases like this, but… please. I will pay you."

Sherlock smiled briefly, "I'll do it for free."

John frowned, "And I'm left to pay the rent?"

"John, please. It will be a pleasure hunting down Charlie Milverton. I would never charge anything for it." He got up, "Rakesha, I'll get in touch with you once I have the pictures."

"Are you sure you can get them?" There was a glimpse of hope in Rakesha's eyes.

Sherlock remembered Irene Adler. He had gotten what he wanted from her in the end. And no one could match Irene Adler. At least no one alive. "I am."

* * *

><p><strong>Sherlock Action. Will he get what he wants from Milverton?<strong>


	3. I'm addicted to the thrill

**And a new chapter. I finally got a job (yay me!), so I apologize that I won't be uploading as frequently as I did with my last story. Anyways. **

**Disclaimer: see chapter one, plus, title of this chapter is from _Run this town_ by the man Jay-Z, my beloved Rihanna and Kanye West. No profit made  
><strong>

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter Two: I'm addicted to the thrill<strong>

7:23 P.M. - _7 days to a scandal_

Right after Rakesha had left, Sherlock went to work. In a matter of minutes, he had deduced from the photograph where exactly the flat in question was. Something about streetlight and stuff, John had no idea. Frankly, he didn't really care for streetlights when he looked at the picture: there was a naked woman in it, after all. And a very fit one, for that matter. He was actually feeling a bit of regret when Sherlock was done deducing and grabbed his coat, ready to go and talk to Charlie Milverton.

The flat was in quite a posh neighbourhood; Milverton seemed to make lots of money with the whole blackmailing business. Sherlock trotted up the stairs, rang a random bell, put on his sweetest voice and wondered if the woman could buzz him in. Of course she did; who resist friendly Sherlock'S voice? John followed Sherlock to the third floor where he knocked on a door. After roughly a minute, the door opened.

Charlie Milverton was in his late twenties. A tall man with ruffled, dirty blonde hair, green eyes, nicely tanned, rather lanky. He was wearing a white wifebeater, an unbuttoned red shirt and washed-out jeans of the highest quality. John, despite being so obviously not gay, could understand why Rakesha had fallen for the guy: he had a roguish look to him.

When he recognized who was standing in front of his door, he grinned, revealing a charming little gap amidst pearly white teeth, "Sherlock Holmes, the great detective, and his blogger. I knew it was only a matter of time till the three of us meet. To what do I owe the pleasure?"

"Negotiation. May we come in?" Sherlock said.

"Yeah… no, I don't think so. The two of you against me? Not fair. I think we can discuss the little matter here. My neighbours are all deaf anyways. Old ladies, you know?" He smiled wider, "So, who sent you? Dana, Mary, Julian, Rakesha, Claire….? Yeah, I've been kinda busy lately."

"Rakesha."

"Ah, I see. Well, I told her, and I tell you, I don't negotiate." He tried to close the door, but John had already put his foot in the way. Charlie shrugged, "Well, a bit of a draught is always nice. Tell Rakesha she's got seven days left."

"She cannot pay that sum of money."

"Oh, I am sure she can. Tomorrow is a marathon in the city. Fundraising shit. I'm sure she'll get way more than the ten thousand quid I ask from her."

"The money is for charity." John exclaimed.

Charlie tilted his head, "Please. Africa and all. Who needs them? Won't change anything anyhow. Tell Rakesha to stop trying and wiggle her way out, and pay me. If I send the pictures to the newspapers, it's going to cause a scandal she and her hubbie will never recover from."

"Why do you want him to resign?"

Charlie shrugged, "For funsies. I like causing trouble. And to see how I, little Charlie Milverton, can make a politician resign… That's hot. Soon, people will forget James Moriarty, will forget Sebastian Moran, and I will reign this city. I'm doing pretty well already. Just waiting for the one slip of the Prime Minister."

Sherlock didn't say anything, but John answered, "You do know how James Moriarty ended, though?"

"Oh yeah, of course. Bit the bullet. Quite literally. He couldn't quite match you, Sherlock, but I can. James Moriarty talked big, but he was just a small man that happened to have quite an army at his hands. Heard you destroyed them all. Where's Moran, anyways? Missing in action?"

"Quite so." Sherlock responded. "Now, I believe we're done here."

Milverton grinned, "You are. Send Rakesha my love. She's quite good in bed, actually. Wouldn't mind repeating our little date. Good bye, Sherlock. I hope to see you again soon. Dr Watson." He closed the door.

* * *

><p>Outside, John was enraged, "Can you imagine this? What an utter bastard! Poor Rakesha!" Sherlock didn't say anything. "And we are no closer of getting the pictures! What are we going to do?" Again, Sherlock didn't answer, but he turned around and scanned the house in which Milverton had his flat. "Sherlock?" John followed his gaze. It was a nice house, although it was now disfigured by the scaffold around it so the cladding could be redone. "Sherlock?"<p>

Sherlock's eyes had lit up considerably, "Any plans for tonight, John?"

John shook his head, "No. Why?"

Sherlock didn't answer, but walked on, leaving John standing there waiting for an explanation which didn't come. John shrugged and followed his friend. Sherlock would eventually tell him what he was up to. Until that moment, John wouldn't have any luck in trying to get anything out of Sherlock.

When they arrived at 221B, Sherlock still hadn't uttered another word, but went straight to his room. John could hear the rummaging through Sherlock's entire boxes while he sat down with a cup of tea and a book. But he wasn't focussed. Charlie Milverton, this bastard, had gotten to him, and not only because he, as he had to admit, fancied Rakesha quite a bit. But this scum wanted her to take the money designed for charity and give it to him. That was really low. Even Jim Moriarty had never sunken that low. Given that threatening to blow up a kid was not really nice, but Moriarty had been insane. Evil, but insane. Charlie Milverton however was just a regular scumbag. Most likely with good connections and quite an ill-natured brain. No way could this man be an equal to Sherlock. John was sure Sherlock had a plan of what to do, he just didn't know whether he liked it, and he was dead sure that he was supposed to play a part in it, which he liked even less. No, that was a blatant lie. He loved it. Since Moriarty's death and Moran's disappearance, he and Sherlock had had no interesting cases. Of course, it didn't bother John as much as it bothered Sherlock, but still, he wanted some action again. Something that would make the hairs on his back stand up, that created goose bumps all over his body, that required running, dashing, sweating… Hell, he wanted trouble! And he hoped Sherlock had planned something that involved trouble.

And then Sherlock came back out of his room, wearing a black sweater, black trousers, and a black balaclava. Over his head. John looked up, "I suppose you have to walk. None of the cabs will take you like that."

"I know. They wouldn't take me with the harpoon."

"What is your plan?"

"We will break into Milverton's flat and get the pictures. He must have them there. Wouldn't dare leaving them unattended. He must have a safe somewhere, maybe a locked drawer, somewhere in the flat. Maybe it's printed pictures, but more likely a USB Stick, or a CD. He wouldn't let them on his computer."

"How do you know that?" John asked.

"He sends them to newspapers. Email is much faster than the post. Anyways, now that the scaffold is there it will make it much easier. We'll just go in, get the pictures, go out again and we're good. It won't help us bring him down, since we cannot go to the police with the evidence, but it will give him a major blow. Now, we still have some time left so we can get dinner. Are you joining me?"

John put down the cup, "Of course I do. Just let me change." He was on his way to his room when he turned around, "When you say join you, do you mean dinner, or the break-in?"

Sherlock grinned, "The break-in of course. You know I don't eat when I'm on a case."

* * *

><p><strong>There we go, Mr Sherlock Holmes is a gangstah. Reviews are much appreciated. Really. <strong>


	4. That man plays me like a game

**And another chapter. Thanks to Expecto Prongs and da Pumpkin for the reviews. I am glad anyone actually likes this story. Do I have to tell you people _again _how important it is that you review stories? You know how many people will give up on a story because you guys don't show appreciation? I won't because I enjoy writing this story too much. Still, I would really love to hear your comment. Join the review revolution, give writers what they deserve. Rant over.**

**Disclaimer: See chapter One. Plus, the title from this story is from Caro Emeralds _That Man_. No profit made.  
><strong>

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter Three: That man plays me like a game<strong>

_12:07 A.M. – 6 days to a scandal_

John and Sherlock had spent about two hours sitting in the bushes in Charlie Milverton's neighbourhood, watching the windows of his flat (or, what Sherlock had deduced was his flat, but John knew he was probably right) and waiting for him to go to bed. Both hadn't talked the whole time, but had waited patiently. John was reminded of his time in Afghanistan. There, he had spent a lot of time waiting, waiting for the next wounded soldier he had to treat, waiting for the next attack of the enemy. He was used to it. At least, this time, if everything went according to plan, he didn't have to treat serious injuries. Although, with Sherlock, you never knew. John remembered vividly how the American that had hurt Mrs Hudson had looked like after Sherlock had been done with him. But then, if John would get the opportunity, he would gladly deliver a few punches to Milverton's face himself. Maybe get his knuckles injured and see a doctor… Rakesha maybe. He shook his head.

Sherlock nodded.

John frowned, "Why are you nodding?"

"I was thinking that he just had put the lights out, you shook your head, so I nodded, because he did." Sherlock whispered back. "How long do you think it will take him to find sleep?"

"No idea. He sounds like a man who doesn't lose sleep over matters, so I guess… half an hour?"

"Hm. Let's wait another hour." He looked at John. "You enjoy this, don't you?"

"Oh God, yes. You were right; it's been boring those last… well, years for me." He smiled a bit. "I'm glad you're back. Really. I've missed this so much… I missed you so much."

The corners of Sherlock's mouth twitched a bit, "I missed you, too. Even more than I miss Jim."

"Well, that's a compliment if I ever heard one…"

* * *

><p>An hour later, both men climbed up the scaffold. John was quite happy he had never stopped exercising, or else it would have been quite a job to climb up. Sherlock however moved with the grace of a panther. John followed him until he paused at an open window.<p>

Sherlock looked at it, frowning and whispered, "Would you leave your window open if you were Charlie Milverton?"

John shook his head, "No. Do you think it's a trap?"

"I am sure."

"Do you think he's got people in there waiting for us?" John's body tensed; he was going into fighting mode. "Armed people?"

Sherlock hesitated, "I don't know. I don't know if he has associates or not, but anyone can hire a few thugs. I'll go in, you go home."

"What? I am so not. Why would you go in?"

"I need to take a look at the flat. I need to see where he could hide the pictures."

"This is insane, Sherlock. If this really is a trap, you could be killed."

"Oh please, Jim Moriarty couldn't kill me." Sherlock shook his head. "But okay. Let's go, then."

He cautiously climbed through the window. John followed, listening to any noise inside. He was now in full soldier mode, taking his environment in. Let Sherlock go and look for the pictures; he, John, would watch his back, make sure nobody attacked him.

Sherlock went straight to work. Dark as it was, the room, the kitchen, only dimly lit by the streetlight outside, he moved with an ease, silent, not making any noise. He looked into every box, the fridge, the microwave, but with no result. The door that led from the kitchen to the living-room was open as well. John checked it out, but no one was hiding there. He waved to Sherlock and watched as the detective went through the living-room, looking everywhere, even crouching under the table to see whether a USB stick was taped to the table board. But nothing. Sherlock was getting more and more frustrated when he realized the pictures had to be in the bedroom; the bathroom, with all the humidity, was unlikely. He exchanged looks with John, and John understood; they would come back and check the bedroom when Charlie Milverton was out. Why they hadn't waited for that moment anyways John didn't know, but he guessed it was either because Sherlock didn't want to waste any time, or because he just liked to live on the edge. So John just nodded, and the two of them hushed back into the kitchen, wanting to leave the flat the same way they got in. Only it was blocked.

Charlie Milverton sat on the window sill, legs dangling in a playful fashion. There was a wide grin plastered on his face, "Oh. I got visitors."

Sherlock rolled his eyes, "I knew it. Where's the rest of you?"

"What, you think I hired some people to beat you up? Noooo…. Doesn't sound like me, does it?" He shook his head. "I was waiting upstairs. I knew you'd come. You are so easy to decipher sometimes. But no, don't worry. No one's here to trash you."

"Then what else did you do?"

"I planted about twenty cameras. Every single one of your movements has been recorded and sent to an internet platform somewhere on the Cayman Isles. Now, you and I, Sherlock, we know you're real. That this whole fraud business was the plan of a total nutshell. But that's the thing, you know. _We_ know. People don't. Even DI Lestrade still has a hard time believing you. What do you think will happen if they see this video? Nobody will ever believe you again. All those people that need your help, and you won't be able to help them. Hell, you'll maybe even go to jail for this. End of a beautiful career, and I didn't even have to set up a big fancy scheme. You walked into this trap all on your own." He smiled. "Now, to business, Sherlock. _You_ will leave me alone. You will back off, or this video is being sent to the _Sun_. Or whatever. You will go and tell that slut Rakesha that I want my fucking money. And Sherlock, while we are at it, tell her the price for the pictures has just doubled. 20.000 quid. Now, off you go. I have things to do." He hopped into the room, made a little dramatic bow to Sherlock and John, and walked past them into his bedroom, but not without saying, "Charlie Milverton. The man that beat Sherlock Holmes."

Sherlock didn't say anything until they were home.

* * *

><p>There, he immediately picked up his violin. John knew better than to try and talk to him now. He could see Sherlock was… angry, if he was even capable of such an emotion. John had no idea why; was it because his reckless actions had gotten Rakesha into even deeper trouble, or because he hated being beaten by other people. Sherlock wasn't used to losing; he had beaten Adler, he had beaten Moriarty. He had also beaten many other people, but those two counted. And now he had apparently lost to Charlie Milverton, whom he considered a low life. Which he was.<p>

John rubbed his eyes. He was tired, and disappointed, "I'm going to bed, Sherlock. Don't beat yourself up over it." Sherlock didn't answer, of course he didn't. John sighed deeply and left the detective alone.

* * *

><p><strong>Oh Sherlock... "I'm in a little bit of trouble... and I'm in real deep..." (Caro Emerald, That Man)<strong>


	5. I ran to the devil, it was waiting

**And because I am nice, a new chapter for you guys. **

**Disclaimer: See chapter one. Plus, as you should know, the title of this chapter is from Nina Simone's _Sinnerman_.  
><strong>

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter Four: I ran to the devil, it was waiting<strong>

_8:57 A.M. – Six days to a scandal_

After John woke up, it took him a while to remember what had happened the night before. When it dawned on him, he groaned. Epic fail. He could hear Sherlock was still playing the violin. So apparently he hadn't been to bed the whole night. Poor Sherlock. John sighed and got out of bed. A tea would help. He put on his bathing robe, then decided against it and got dressed immediately. He would go to see Rakesha and inform her of the newest development. And maybe hug her when she was crying.

So, fully dressed, he went into the living-room, where Sherlock was still in the exact same position John had left him. John had to smile, how he had missed that. He cleared his throat, "Would you like a tea?"

"I asked for a tea two hours ago."

"Yeah, well, I was in bed then." John rolled his eyes and walked into the kitchen. It was surprisingly clean; Mrs Hudson must have been here some time during the evening while they had made a fool of themselves at Milverton's. He prepared the tea cups and opened the fridge to get the milk out. Of course, there was no milk, as usual. He went into the living room again, "Wherever you have been those last years, didn't they teach you to bring home milk if you use it all up? Or do I have to face the fact that we only ever have milk in this flat when you have tea parties with consulting criminals?"

"I don't…" Sherlock paused. "Well, you can always go and buy some milk. Take my card, and don't insult the machines."

John had to smile despite himself; Sherlock remembering things like this always warmed his heart. He sighed and grabbed Sherlock's wallet from the table. "I'll be right back."

"Take your time. We're out of cereal too."

"I'll just go and do the shopping."

* * *

><p>When John had left, Sherlock put the violin down, sat in his armchair and started thinking. He had royally screwed up this time. He had underestimated Milverton. Like he had underestimated Adler. But Adler had played fair. Well, more or less. Adler had just been another pawn in Moriarty's game. Milverton however was different. He had no weakness that Sherlock knew of. The only possibility was to either destroy him, or to get those pictures. And still, Rakesha would be save then, but what about the rest of the people Milverton had mentioned? And him? He didn't care much for people's opinion, but he cared for John, and John didn't deserve being dragged into this. John had helped because he just was that lovely. He didn't care for reputations, and he really didn't care about proving a point to Milverton, unlike Sherlock. He needed to sort this out, he needed to get the pictures and the videos, and maybe get rid of Milverton while he was at it. But how, that was the question. He licked his lips, got up from the chair, and walked to his bedroom. There, in the shoebox where he kept all valuable things, he found what he was looking for. A piece of paper with a number scribbled on it. He was glad John had never thrown his things out. People did get sentimental about stuff, and John had never had the heart to rid himself of Sherlock's personal belongings. The piece of paper with the number was still readable, although it was four years old. The handwriting was terrible, but Sherlock could read it. He picked up his cell and dialled. Normally, he would have texted, but chances were he wouldn't get a reply. It was a long shot. He didn't know if the phone number was still working. But hell, it was probably the last thing he could do.<p>

After five beeps, a voice on the other end of the line answered, "Sorcha Moran?"

"This is Sherlock Holmes." Silence. "I know he's alive."

"I don't know what you are talking about."

"Jim Moriarty. I know he's alive. No need for games. I want to speak to him."

"I think you got the wrong number."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. Of course, whoever was on the other end of the line (Sorcha Moran? Sebastian Moran's wife? Was Jim's pet sniper married? He had to ask Mycroft.) did want the illusion of their boss being dead to hold up for as long as possible. But he was Sherlock Holmes, and he was sure Jim would love to talk to him. "Okay. Will you please tell him this: I, Sherlock Holmes, would like to talk to him. I know he's alive, I shot at about three hundred brains to find out how he's done it. I didn't but I _know _he's alive. Tell him I want to speak to him. He can reach me under my old number. Or you can. And tell him: Charlie Milverton."

Silence on the other line, then a short answer, "Good bye, Sherlock Holmes." She hung up.

Sherlock put the phone down. He wasn't sure Jim was alive. He was just really good pretending, to other people and to himself. The number Jim-from-IT had given him was still active, and the fact that there was someone called Moran on the other end of the line was too big to be coincidence. He wanted the man to be alive, had always wanted. He was just too good at what he did to die on a rooftop just because. And because he was that good, Sherlock would go to ask for his… no, not help. Sherlock Holmes didn't beg for help. Jim would be interested in this just because he couldn't leave a man like Milverton run around free. _If_ he was still alive. Sherlock didn't know. But he did know.

* * *

><p>John came back with milk, cereals, lunch, dinner. Nothing happened. John noticed the change in his flatmate, but even after repeated questioning Sherlock didn't let him in. He was being insufferable again. John, who still had Rakesha's tear-stained face before his inner eye, was in no mood to fight with Sherlock, so he retreated to his room, cuddling into his bed with a book. Rakesha had been devastated when John had told her the whole story, but she didn't blame them. <em>You have tried, that's what counts. Thank you. <em>John felt really bad right now, but Sherlock seemed to be quite indifferent to Rakesha's sorrow. John sighed; of course, it had been more of a duel between Sherlock and Milverton from Sherlock's point of view than actual concern for Rakesha, or Africa. But, at least Sherlock was apparently still thinking, if only because he didn't want to lose to Milverton. And if he found a way of beating the man, it would help Rakesha, so in the end, it was all good. So John let Sherlock being a jerk and focused instead on his book, listening to any noise from outside. He hadn't discovered Sherlock's latest stash of cigarettes, and he was sure at some point that evening Sherlock would go rummaging for it, and John would have to stop him, or else deal with a really grumpy Sherlock when he was going cold turkey again. Yet, right now, he enjoyed the silence.

Sherlock was getting more and more impatient. He was even starting to contemplate the fact that he had been wrong, and Jim Moriarty was in fact dead. The woman on the other end of the line had sounded something between angry and sad; to Sherlock, it was not really clear which one. So either, she had been sad because Jim was dead, and she hated being reminded of it, or she had been angry because when he had said his name, blaming him for Jim's death. Or she was a very good actor and Jim was pretty much alive. He could do nothing but wait. Normally he didn't mind the waiting. Patience came with the job. He could sit and watch people for hours; not that he needed it, of course, but he _could_. But this was different. Normally, if he waited for something, he knew it would happen eventually. Now, he didn't know whether it would happen. Sorcha Moran wouldn't call him back, that much he knew. He had to wait for Jim to call. And if Jim was dead, it would never happen, so it was possible he was just wasting his time here, waiting for a call that never came. He remembered people at uni waiting for calls like that. He had laughed at their frustration, when their date from last night didn't call although she had promised it. Now he knew why they felt frustrated. And what if Jim Moriarty was in fact dead? He had conducted many experiments involving guns and skulls and brains, some in his kitchen here, and all of them had given only one result: it was almost impossible surviving a gunshot like the one Moriarty had inflicted on himself. But if Sherlock could fake his death, so could Jim. And the fact that Moran, who was considered Jim's closest associate and a rather reckless man, had been disappeared right under Mycroft's nose (which, Sherlock had to admit, had made his week) suggested he had help. And there weren't many people who could fool Mycroft Holmes, and Sebastian Moran was definitely not one of those. Jim had to be alive. He had helped his pet sniper to disappear off the radar.

And then finally, the phone rang. Sherlock fought the urge to dart towards it, and picked up after thirty seconds only. "Hello, Jim."

"I apologize, I'm calling for F&E security. I was wondering, did you already hear of our new super secure anti-thief front door…"

"I'm not interested." He hung up. But the phone rang again after a minute. "Hello?"

"See, Sir, I can imagine you are not interested, but I can totally assure you that once you have seen our new super secure anti-thief front door, you will never want another front door…"

"I said I am not interested." He hung up again. And the phone rang again. "Yes?"

"But Sir, I can…"

Sherlock hung up again and slammed the phone on the table. He had to take his number off the website. People kept calling him about all sorts of things, as if he really needed a new super secure anti-thief front door. The phone rang again. Sherlock lost his temper when he picked up, "Look, I don't give a damn about front doors, or back doors, or even windows. I have never been robbed here, and no one will rob me, but, if you would like a new client, try Charlie Milverton, I heard he had a break-in yesterday. Good bye."

A chuckle on the other line, and then a voice Sherlock Holmes hadn't heard in three years but would never forget, "Hey sexy. Did you miss me?"

* * *

><p><strong>And he ran to Devil<strong>.


	6. But there's a side to you

**And still, no more reviews. This is getting really frustrating. I hope now that Jim is back and I can change the filters, some more people who are interested in Jim stories will read it. At least they do review...**

**Disclaimer: See chapter one, plus, title from this song taken from Adele's _Set fire to the rain_.  
><strong>

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter Five: But there's a side to you that I never knew, never knew<strong>

_10:32 P.M. – Six days to a scandal_

The bell rang. John noticed Sherlock wasn't moving, so he sighed, got up from the chair at the kitchen table where he had been drinking his late night beer and opened. And backed off.

In the doorframe leaned Colonel Sebastian Moran. Former Colonel, John had to remind himself. He knew him, of course, everybody in the military, former or not, knew Sebastian Moran. A man known for his brutal handling of captives, his absolute loyalty to his superiors and his God-given talent on the sniper rifle. John had never seen him face to face. Not that he did now. He had to look up to catch Moran's look. He was tall, 6 foot 8 perhaps. His blond hair was short, his brown eyes cold. He was undoubtedly an attractive man, but the cold he radiated was distracting from his features too much.

John had to swallow despite trying to look brave, "What do you want, Moran?"

"I'm here to pick up Sherlock Holmes. Jim sends his apologies… well no, he said that he's not in the mood to come out and play, so if Holmes wants to see him, he has to go with me."

John didn't understand a word, "Wait. _Jim_?"

"James Moriarty."

"He's dead."

Sebastian smiled, revealing a chipped front tooth that gave him a dangerous aura, "Yeah, like Sherlock Holmes could beat James. Now, I don't have time, _Captain_ John Watson. If Holmes still wants to talk to Jim, he'd better hurry up before Jim loses interest."

John tried not to feel insulted at Moran's obvious disrespect for his rank, "Well, _former_ Colonel Moran… Please, wait." He slammed the door in Sebastian's face and walked into the living room. "Sherlock? Sebastian Moran is standing in front of our door and says that if you want to meet Jim, you'd have to go with him."

Sherlock nodded, "Finally. I thought he was being late." He got up from his chair and picked up his coat and scarf.

John frowned, "You act like it's the most normal thing in the world. Moriarty is dead, Sherlock."

"No, he isn't. I talked to him this morning. Guess it took him some time to get Moran here, that's why they are so late."

"Wait. So, Moriarty isn't dead."

"Of course he isn't. Only a fool would believe that. Are you going with me?"

"Sherlock, what if this is a trap?"

"Oh please. Moriarty wouldn't be that cheap. Now, are you going to join me?"

"Most definitely."

* * *

><p>After a long drive, they arrived at quite an impressive house. Neither Sebastian nor the driver nor they had spoken any word during the journey, but now Sebastian got out of the car and opened the back door for them. "Please, come on in. You don't want to keep Jim waiting." Both Sherlock and John got out of the car and followed Sebastian as he led them into the house. It was huge, impressive. All the more for John because Sebastian and Sherlock towered so much over him.<p>

Finally, Sebastian knocked on a door. "Boss? They're here." He waited until Jim answered to let them in, then turned to Sherlock. "If you try anything around him, I will shoot Captain Watson, make you watch him die, and then kill you, you understand?" Sherlock only glanced back at him, the same icy look in his eyes. Sebastian stared him down for another few seconds, then opened the door and let them in, closing the door behind himself, positioning himself in front of it and aiming a handgun at John's back.

But both John and Sherlock were much too preoccupied with what they saw to pay attention. Jim Moriarty, much alive, was sitting in a chair behind a desk. He was wearing a dark black suit, white shirt, tie. The years that had passed since they'd last seen him hadn't changed his appearance much. His hair was still of that dark black, his eyes deep brown. He looked a bit thinner than he used to, and John thought exhausted, but there still was the glint in his eyes and the smirk on his face.

Especially now, "Sherlock. How beautiful to see you again. I have to admit I am quite happy you didn't hurt your face on the pavement too much. How did you do it?"

Sherlock didn't smile, "I'm not here to talk about me, Jim. Charlie Milverton."

Jim nodded, "I know. Moran's told me about it." He motioned with his head to the corner of the room. John followed his movement. There stood a woman. Blonde hair, brown eyes, dressed in a grey skirt, grey blazer, white blouse. John didn't even need a name to figure out that this was not Sebastian Moran's wife. His sister, judging from the apparently small difference in age. And the fact that she was pointing her gun at Sherlock in almost the same fashion Sebastian did. Twins, maybe even.

Sherlock however didn't even seem to acknowledge the presence. "Are you in?"

Jim tilted his head, "You want my help?"

"It's what you do for a living, isn't it? Consult people?" As Jim nodded, he continued, "Milverton owns something I want."

"Pictures, I assume? Or videos?" Jim looked bored. "He hasn't changed his way, now, has he?"

A flicker of surprise in Sherlock's eyes, "You know him?"

"Not personally. But then again, you knew that." He looked past John at Sebastian. "Care to tell your story, Seb?"

"Not much, boss."

"Okay. Then I will. Lieutenant Simon Milverton, Charlie's older brother, was in Afghanistan with Sebastian. A regular bastard, like his brother. Took several pictures of Sebastian doing what he does best. Send them to Charlie, who got in contact with lovely Ms Moran over there. _Pay me half a million, come sleep with me, or I'll send these pictures to your superior._ Needless to say, Moran didn't have the money. She came to me, asking for my help, but it was already too late. Sebby was dishonourably discharged; I offered him a job, for old times' sake. When Simon came back to England, I had him… executed. Yeah, that's the right word. Cried like a baby. Last time I did get my hands dirty, actually. Oh, how I miss those times." His eyes lit up, "But, you, Sherlock… You have a history on your own with Milverton junior, don't you?"

"Nope. Not until now."

"What has he got, then, that you would come to me for help?" Jim didn't sound amused, only genuinely interested.

John interrupted, "Are you sure you want to tell him? How do you know he doesn't work with Milverton?"

Jim rolled his eyes, "Aren't you an ordinary man? Tell him, Sherlock."

Sherlock smiled, barely noticeable, "'I am the Lord your God, who brought you out of the land of Egypt, out of the house of bondage. You shall have no other gods before me'. You don't allow any gods next to you either."

"Good…"

"You don't work with people. People work for you." He motioned at Sebastian. "Even a Colonel works for you, not with you."

"Very good…"

"And even though you wouldn't admit it, attacking your most loyal servant is as good as a personal attack for you. You want Milverton destroyed as much as I do."

There was a wide grin on Jim's face now, "Glad to see that you haven't lost any of your abilities. Convinced now, Johnny Boy?" John didn't answer; between James Moriarty and Sherlock Holmes, he felt even more inadequate than usual. Jim nodded and asked again, "What does Milverton have that he could use against you?"

"A videotape, apparently. Of me and John breaking into his flat."

Sebastian and the woman in the corner chuckled, until Jim gave them both a glance that shut them up. "I have to apologize. There seems to be some schadenfreude from my employees towards you. Inappropriate of course." He was now mildly amused, "So, you basically want me to help you get your hands on that tape because you want to protect your little pet from being harmed."

"It would appear so."

Jim leaned back, "Finally this boredom is over. Of course I will help. I won't even charge you a dime. Sebastian?"

Sebastian straightened up, "Sir?"

"Go prepare my computer, will you?" Sebastian apparently made a grimace because Jim's voice took a dangerous tone. "Your sister is here, and I do have a gun as well. I am save. Now, _leave_." The door opened and closed again. "Again, I apologize. He's been a bit tense since that incident with your brother." Jim sighed, "You may leave now, too. I will get back to you once I have something."

"What are your plans?" Sherlock asked. John was glad he did, because frankly, he didn't trust Jim the least bit.

Jim chuckled, "Dear Jim will fix it for you. That's all you need to know. Now, excuse me, my computer should be ready."

"Jim…." Sherlock added pressure to his voice.

"I will try and track down his associates. Shouldn't be too much trouble to hack into his mail account. I did it before. He must have people on the lookout for scandals and compromising situations; it's impossible to juggle that business without minions. Once I have found somebody, Sebastian will take care of him or her."

"And if you do that, people will find out you are alive."

Jim nodded, "True. But I was getting bored with the situation anyways. Time to get back on the street. Oh Sherlock, we will have so much fun once this is done. Moran?" The woman shifted. "Get word out I am back. I guess the security of Number Three should be enough…" He watched as she pulled out her phone and hit several keys. When she was done, he smiled, "I can hear the city trembling. Anyways, if you want that tape back, I need to start working now. Moran." She left her position and walked over to Jim, putting her hands somewhere behind his shoulders.

Sherlock Holmes was not an easy man to be shocked, and John Watson had seen many awful things in Afghanistan, but nothing could have prepared either John or Sherlock for the sight they were confronted with now.

James Moriarty was sitting in a wheelchair.

He gave them a crooked grin, "Oh, yeah, I forgot to mention. I'm not in the position to do much legwork. If that is required, please take it to Moran here. Moran, will you be so kind as to drive Sherlock and John back to Baker Street? Without making a mess?"

"Sure." Even the short word showed the contempt she had for both men.

"Good. I'll get in touch, guys. See you later." Moran (Sorcha, Sherlock reminded himself) wheeled Jim out of the room.

John looked at Sherlock, "You think he's faking?"

Sherlock didn't answer.

* * *

><p><strong>Yeah, I keep surprising you, don't I? Surprise me, and leave a review. <strong>


	7. I feel so high, I feel so alive

**I'm not gonna say anything. Just how frustrating this is. **

**Disclaimer: See chapter One. Title from Christina Aguilera's _Make Over._  
><strong>

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter Six: I feel so high, I feel so alive<br>**

_11:57 P.M. – Five days and three minutes to a scandal_

They sat in the car again when Sherlock nudged John and motioned to the woman. John rolled his eyes. Sherlock intensified his look. John took a breath and said, "So… you are Sebastian's sister? I didn't catch your name."

"Sorcha."

"That's a… that's a beautiful name. So, you are Sebastian's… I already said that. I'm… I'm sorry… I'm just a bit shocked by… you know… the wheelchair. I'm a doctor, you know."

Sherlock could see Sorcha's annoyed look in the rear way mirror when she answered, "I know."

John exchanged a look with Sherlock who motioned him to continue. He was not really sure what the point of it was, but if Sherlock wanted it, he surely had a plan. "What… what is wrong with him, then? An accident?"

Now it was Sorcha's turn to roll her eyes, "I don't think that's any of your business, Dr Watson."

"No, you're right, it's not. But I have experience. I have seen many injuries…"

"Shut up!"

John was taken aback by the sudden outburst, "Okay. Okay, sorry. Well, you really are your boss' employee, aren't you?"

Sherlock smiled briefly and said, "Conversion disorder. Am I right?" She didn't answer. "What is the cause? The torture my brother and his men inflicted on him, or the fake suicide?"

Sorcha seemed to hesitate, but then she said, "We don't know."

John turned to Sherlock, "How the heck did you know?"

"I didn't. Shot in the dark. Good one, again." He locked eyes with Sorcha through the mirror, "He was fine when he was on the rooftop with me. When he broke into the tower. I suppose the torture didn't have much effect on him. When did it appear?"

"Long after the rooftop. That's why we don't know what caused it."

"I see. How is he handling it?"

She shrugged, "You have seen him."

Sherlock nodded, "And you are what? His nurse?"

"Deduce, Mr Holmes. I am not important, so everything you want to know, you'll have to figure out yourself."

"Oh, you are important." He let his eyes wander over her face. "You don't wear any jewellery but the necklace, which is so long I cannot see the pendant. I've seen it before. Jim-from-IT was wearing it, in the exact same way. It was either yours from the beginning, or he gave it to you sometime later, or you two own the same necklace, anyways, being that this is the only jewellery you're wearing it must mean something to you, so you are important." He waited for her reaction.

It came; the tone in her voice had changed. "It's mine. I gave it to him when he took the job at St Bart's, knowing he would run into you eventually. Told him it was to protect him. He also wore it that night at the pool. Then he took it off. I never found out why, but he gave it back to me. A few days after that, your brother kidnapped him. I'm not superstitious, Mr Holmes, but I do believe in God. Jim never took the necklace back again. Not even now."

"When did he give it back to you?" Sherlock asked. John was wondering what was going on; this was the first time in years he had heard Sherlock doing smalltalk.

"The first of January."

The corners of Sherlock's mouth twitched, and again, John had no idea why.

The car came to a halt. Sorcha opened the door, "There you go. If anything else comes up, you have my phone number. If Jim has a result, he will call. Good night." She slammed the door shut with more force than necessary and drove away.

* * *

><p>Inside of their flat, John asked, "Why did you ask her when he gave her the necklace back?"<p>

Sherlock took off his coat, "Isn't that obvious?"

"Again, not to me."

"He had the necklace that night at the pool when Irene Adler called and saved all of our lives. There was a chance that even though Jim is not superstitious, he would start believing there was something to it. It's a cross pendant, of course, what else would she be wearing when she says she believes in God? Anyways, he gave it back to her on January 1st 2012, the day he wrote Mycroft the message about the Boeing. Why would he give it away just that day, when he probably knew Mycroft would come for him? Because he felt she needed the protection."

"I still don't understand."

Sherlock went to the kitchen and poured some milk into a cup, "Again, obvious. Jim knew Mycroft would probably not stop at him but go for his men next, if there was any chance they knew about the key code. So, Jim, even though I cannot imagine him believing in anything but himself, gives the necklace back to Sorcha. An illogical attempt of protecting her against my brother, I guess. Of course he didn't tell her why he did it because that would mean he had to tell her Mycroft was after him, and you've seen how protective she is of him."

Now it dawned on John, "You said she was important. To him, you mean?"

"Precisely. That's what I was trying to find out. If Jim tries to betray us, which I doubt, we do have something against him." Sherlock smiled, "Every person has their pressure point. Jim told me so himself. I never thought his pressure point could be the Moran family. His affection to his sniper is more than obvious, but he I never thought there could be someone else. I need to find out how they met. He picked up his phone and started texting, "Mycroft will know."

"You want to involve Mycroft?"

"Just a bit. After all, Jim is safe. Mycroft would have probably never caught him in the first place if Jim hadn't wanted to be caught." He put the phone back on the table. "Oh, finally, a relief from this boredom!"

* * *

><p>Sebastian and Jim were sitting in Jim's smaller office where his computer was. The big fancy office was just to impress clients; Jim preferred the sterility of this small room when he was working. Even Sebastian's presence bothered him now, but he knew there was no way of getting rid of his sniper now that he had made a pact with Sherlock Holmes.<p>

Sebastian watched Jim typing away frantically on the keyboard, doing with the computer what Harry Potter did with his wand. Jim was a magician; Sebastian was somehow sure that if Jim had ever wanted a key code, he would have been able to make one. The only thing that Jim couldn't do, Sebastian thought, was walking. He had been there that fatal morning when suddenly Jim had called him, panicking, because he couldn't feel his legs anymore. It was the only time ever that Sebastian had seen his boss scared. He had tried to calm him down, telling him that there was no way he would be paralyzed, since he hadn't had an accident that could have caused it. But Jim had completely freaked out, even going so far as to ram a bloody kitchen knife into his thigh just to feel something. To no avail. Since then, many doctors had looked at Jim. All came back with the same result. _Everything intact, nothing out of the ordinary_. Yeah, nothing but the fact that Jim Moriarty was confined to a wheelchair for no obvious reason at all. After the first ten attempts of the doctors to figure out what was causing the paralysis, Jim had given up hope and had learned to live with the impairment. It was then when Sebastian had called his sister. Sorcha had always been close to Jim, but somehow Jim had forbidden Sebastian to tell her he was alive. Sebastian didn't know why, but he never questioned any of Jim's orders. But it had been enough then, and he had taken the liberty to inform his sister that their friend wasn't dead, and that he needed help. She had come the next day, and somehow Sebastian had had the impression that Jim hadn't minded it too much. Since then, Sorcha had taken care of Jim, done what needed to be done while Sebastian had taken care of the empire again. He knew that his baby sister had been in love with Jim from the first day she met him, back when he was sixteen and had just been beaten up severely by Carl Powers. Sebastian had minded it, knowing from the beginning on the boy was trouble, but Sorcha had been drawn to Jim like a moth to the flame of a destructive candle. Jim had never loved her back, of course; Sebastian had found that out after many tear-filled nights. But he had nevertheless cared for Sorcha, in his own twisted ways.

Like he had cared for Sebastian. Sebastian had never much liked Jim when they were young, but he had nevertheless defended him when Carl Powers had beaten him up, if only because he hated it when people picked on the weaker ones. He had never expected to be rewarded for that. But when he had been discharged from army, with no perspective, Jim had paid him back. Given him a job, a life, hope. And Sebastian had proven his loyalty more than once. Over the years he had started to love Jim, of course in a different way than Sorcha did. He would die for the man in a heartbeat. He had been devastated when he thought Jim had killed himself, not because of what he feared to lose, but because of what he had lost. He had followed Sherlock through Europe, trying to kill him, but Holmes had been better. And then he had gone back home, and Sebastian had decided to shoot him, just there, just then. It had of course gone awfully wrong. He had been caught, sent to Pentonville for attempted murder. And then, suddenly, Jim had appeared, out of nowhere, bribed the guards and helped Sebastian escape and disappear. Loyalty was always rewarded, and Sebastian knew he had done everything right. It had been fun and games till the moment fate had put his boss into a wheelchair. Since then, it was pain for Sebastian. He knew it wasn't his fault, but he would give his life to see Jim prancing through the flat again, kicking random things because he was angry. And yes, Sebastian blamed the Holmes brothers, especially Mycroft. At some point, he hoped, Jim would order a hit on Mycroft Holmes, and Sebastian hoped he would have time to show his face to Mycroft before his bullet ended this life.

Suddenly, Jim grinned, "That was easier than I thought."

"You're in?"

"Yes. You always value guns over computers, but I tell you, this is where wars are decided."

"Sure. Next time you order a hit I shoot them with a MacBook Air."

Jim chuckled, "Nah. Stick to what you know best. So… let's see whether he keeps his pictures on his computer." He started typing on the keyboard.

Sebastian watched Jim. Not his fingers, no. His eyes. It had been quite a while since he had seen Jim's eyes sparkling like that. He had fun, he was enjoying himself tremendously. Sebastian wasn't sure, but he thought that, for a second, Jim had forgotten about his legs.

Jim frowned, "Nope, nothing. He must have deleted everything. But at least I'm in his mail account, so I can check out his contacts." Said and done. Jim nibbled on his lower lip, "Who would have thought this man was so stupid. He actually has saved his contacts. Look at this, twenty-six people."

Sebastian scanned the names, "There, look at this. That address."

"What about it?"

"This man has contacted us once. Legacy shit, that sort of thing."

"I don't remember."

"You said it was boring and let me handle it. He wanted his brother to go away. I staged a helicopter accident. He got all the money."

Jim nodded, "Good idea. And you are sure this is him?"

"Positive."

"Do you know where he lives?"

"I could bring him in within an hour."

"Then what are you waiting for?" Jim gave him a smile. "Off you go."

* * *

><p><strong>Why do I even bother uploading, I wonder. <strong>


	8. Pero tú esperas más

**Short. But then, nobody will care. **

**Disclaimer: See chapter one. Plus, title is taken from Nelly Furtado's** _Dar_**  
><strong>

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter Seven: Pero tú esperas más de lo que yo puedo dar<br>**

_2:39 A.M. – Five days to a scandal_

Jim made his way to the cellar when Sebastian texted him he was waiting downstairs with Frank Davenport, the alleged associate of Charlie Milverton. It was quite a hassle, with the wheelchair and all, but thank God he had a lift that went right down to his cellar. Of course he was well able to drive his own wheelchair; he had only asked Sorcha to do it because the look was much more dramatic than if he had done it himself. And he still liked making dramatic appearances.

So he rolled into the cellar where Sebastian was already waiting, cigarette between his lips, going through his equipment. Davenport was tied to a chair, a hood over his head, clearly out.

Jim rolled over to the big armchair, "Did he give you any trouble?"

"No. He didn't even see it coming." Sebastian murmured absentmindedly while eying a particularly vicious looking knife.

"Good. Hopefully this will be over soon."

Sebastian raised his head and watched Jim as he tried to wrestle himself into the armchair, "Do you need help?"

"I told you a million times I can do this on my own…" It was a lot of effort, as he tried to get his body from one chair into the other while not being able to rely on his legs. Sebastian thought he did pretty well though. The first… fifty times at least when he had tried it, he had landed on the ground, hard. But he wouldn't accept help from anybody, even went so far as throwing a letter opener at Sorcha when she had tried to steady him. At some point though, he had finally figured out how he could do it; Sebastian had to admire him for his determination. Always trying to do things on his own. Like now. He motioned Sebastian to carry the wheelchair away and tried to sit comfortably. He always hoped people wouldn't notice what was up with him. Funny, Jim thought. Before, he had never worried how he looked to other people. He had just sat down in a chair, crossed his legs, or his ankles, like it was the most natural thing in the world. And now, he worried about every position he took: does it look natural? Would people notice that Jim Moriarty was paralysed, would they stop being scared of him and trying to take over what he had created? He needed to hide it from the other people. Sherlock and John would not talk, that much Jim knew. Sebastian and Sorcha did their best to make everything seem normal. And the rest of his minions didn't know it.

Now, he leaned back in the chair, "What do you say, Seb?"

Sebastian nodded, "Looks okay to me. Shall I wake him up?"

"Please."

Sebastian grabbed the nearest bucket of water, took the hood off Frank Davenport's head and threw the ice cold water over him. The man woke up with a start, coughing, shaking his head. When he had calmed down after a few seconds, he looked up at Sebastian and frowned, "Mr Moran?"

"Mr Davenport. Long time no see. How are you?"

"I… I am fine… I don't understand… why am I here?" Then he saw Jim, "Oh, my God…."

"What? Do I scare you?" Jim grinned. "No need to be scared."

"I… I don't… Mr Moriarty, I… I don't know why I'm here, but, please believe me, I never did anything to harm you… I…"

"Oh, stop whining, I don't have time for this." Jim rolled his eyes, "You are here for something else. Now, I seem to remember that my man Sebastian here helped you to get a huge amount of money. I'm wondering, Mr Davenport, why exactly do you still need to work?"

"I… I don't…"

"Ah, you don't. So you just like causing trouble, like me?"

"I… I don't understand…."

Jim tilted his head, "Charlie Milverton, Frank."

Now it seemed to dawn on Davenport, "Oh… I… Yes… I do… work with him sometimes…" He swallowed, "I didn't know I shouldn't…"

Jim grinned, "I really don't care much for what you feel you should do. Now, let's get to business… What do you know about him?"

"I don't know anything. We met once. I send the pictures in emails. I really don't know any more."

Jim cast a look at Sebastian, who walked towards Davenport, "Are you sure about that?"

Davenport's eyes winded, "No… please, don't… I… I really don't know anything else…"

* * *

><p>Of course he knew at least a bit more. It took Sebastian more than two hours to get all he knew, which wasn't much. Sebastian would have surely gotten out some more, but Jim had suddenly stopped him and ordered him to let Davenport go. The two hour beating had damaged the man considerably, but he had still managed to limp out on his own, after swearing to God he wouldn't rat Jim out to Milverton.<p>

As Sebastian washed his hands, he asked his boss, "What do you want to do with this information, Jim?"

Jim, already back in his wheelchair, answered, "Well, it wasn't really valuable information, was it? Some names, but apparently Milverton doesn't let his people close… That's unfortunate." He licked his lips, "It's much easier if people have a little pet. You grab it, hurt it, and they will do anything to keep it safe. Like Sherlock."

"Like you?" Sebastian joked.

"Don't get your hopes up, Sebbie dear." Jim grinned. "Of course I won't do anything to keep you safe. I expect from you to do your best to keep yourself away from harm, because I certainly won't give in to any ridiculous demands. And by the way, since we are at it, I expect the same from you."

"What do you mean?"

Jim's face suddenly had a thoughtful look to it, "I won't be able to hide my condition much longer. I have been following the news while you were out. Remember I asked Sorcha to get out word I'm back, by telling our friend in Pentonville Prison so that he can hack into the security again. Of course the news reporters are clueless, but the necessary people will soon find out, and then word will spread that I am a cripple…"

"You're not…"

"Did I allow you to speak? Anyways. They'll think I am an easy target, and at some point, people will come for me. If ever somebody tries to get information out of you by threatening to kill me, I want you to refuse."

"Jim…"

"NO! I _order_ you to refuse. You and Sorcha. We don't negotiate."

"And if people kill you?"

"Then be it."

"You can be a stubborn child sometimes, James." Sebastian sat down in the chair. "Okay, so I'll happily watch when people torture you or kill you to get information out of me. But I tell you Sorcha won't."

"Then talk to her. I really cannot risk my empire because you and your sister are getting sentimental." He made his way to the door. "I will call Sherlock now. Can you pick him up?"

"Sure, boss."


	9. And this type of love isn't rational

**See, people, that's what happens when you review. I'm a happy bunny, I update even during the week. Cerulean Gaze, thanks for your review. Miriam, thanks a lot for both your reviews. Pumpkin, thanks for existing. =)**

**Disclaimer: See chapter one. Title from this song taken from Britney Spears' _Criminal._  
><strong>

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter Eight: And this type of love isn't rational<br>**

_7:41 A.M. – Five days to a scandal_

"Not you. Just him." Sebastian laid a hand on John's shoulder when John wanted to follow Sherlock into Jim's office.

"Yes, that's what you think, Moran. The last time I left Sherlock alone with your maniac boss he ended up on the street. No way am I letting him go in there alone."

"Believe me, I despise this as much as you do, but I have orders, and I will follow them, and if I have to shoot you to keep you from following your darling detective, I will gladly do it, _Captain_ Watson."

John was fuming, "This is not going to happen, Moran."

"Oh, it is."

"You know I could shoot you, too. You might be the world's best sniper, but I'm a pretty good shot too, and I have killed people before."

Sebastian laughed, "I'm not people, Watson."

"It doesn't matter who you are, I'm not leaving Sherlock alone…"

* * *

><p>Sherlock turned to Jim, "I took the liberty not to knock. Wouldn't want to disturb those two outside. You called. What have you found?"<p>

Jim looked amused, "I have to apologize for Sebastian. He's got some temper. That's why I keep him around. So yeah, what have I found? Not much so far. Apparently Charlie Milverton doesn't keep pets. I… questioned one of his associates. Milverton gets in contact with people through newspaper adds, can you believe it? _Looking for a job? Got a camera? Email _soandso. People write to him, he pays them five hundred quid in advance to show them he's serious, and then a thousand quid for every picture they send that has a celebrity or some rich or influential person in it. If Milverton gets his victim to pay, the photographer gets a thirty per cent share. Unfortunately, as you can imagine, I haven't been able to find more people, but I guess that won't be of any use anyways."

"No, it is unlikely that the photographers know each other. So I guess the associate doesn't know where Milverton keeps the pictures either."

"Of course not." Jim leaned back. "Have you found something? Does big brother have more information?"

"No. Apparently Milverton knows not to mess with the wrong people. How was school by the way? I hear puberty is quite a hard time in people's life. But of course you had a nice friend back then, didn't you?"

Jim first cocked an eyebrow, but then grinned, "Ah, you made some inquiries about Ms Moran. Gooood. Was your brother happy to hear I'm alive and… well, not kicking. Rolling?"

"Very much so. He has already booked a cell for you. I think you remember it…"

"I do…" Jim chuckled tiredly. "So, you took every precaution to make sure I'm not going to betray you? That's sweet. But don't worry. I have, as you know, kind of a personal reason to teach Milverton a lesson."

"Then have you found a way to do it?"

"I have. And you know it."

"Of course. An insider."

"Exactly. I just don't know who, yet. Any ideas?"

Sherlock frowned, "I guess Sebastian is out of the picture."

"And so is John."

"Precisely. Molly? She would do it."

Now, Jim laughed, "Molly is sweet, but too naïve. Charlie would have her for breakfast. I had her for breakfast, and I was gay at that time."

"I know." Sherlock closed his eyes. "If we knew who else is being blackmailed by Milverton. We could contact the person and ask her to collaborate."

"Not a bad idea. The associate told me that Milverton meets women in his flat. Likes to score after the deal is done. He has fascinating methods, I have to admit. You talked to him, did he mention anybody?"

"A few, but no one I would know."

"Then I guess we need to think of something new."

"Or not…" Sherlock opened his eyes again. "You have something we could use. Sorcha Moran."

Jim tilted his head, "He knows her. And I guess by now even he knows I'm alive. It won't work."

"It will. Trust me. You let the associate live?"

"Yes."

"Pay him. To make pictures of her in a compromising situation. Tell him to send them to Milverton immediately. He will make contact with her. He did it before and failed. This time, make it so compromising he thinks he will win."

Jim thought about it, then smiled, "I think I have just the idea…"

Sherlock got up, "Let me know once you have planned it out."

"You'll find out earlier than you think. Stay at home today, and make sure your pet doesn't."

Sherlock glared at Jim, "If you plan to hurt him…"

"Oh please. I think we should send Sebastian and him out for a drink. This is getting really annoying. Don't worry, Sherly, Johnny boy won't be harmed. Sebastian has order not to hurt anyone of you two. And really, I'm not stupid enough to pick up a fight I am much likely to lose. Rest that beautiful head of yours. And now go home. I need to plan."

"I'm serious, Jim. If John gets hurt, my brother and _I_ will be after you. And after your two friends next."

"I hear you. And, just for the record, Sherlock: If you or the Iceman lay so much as a finger on either Sebastian or Sorcha, I will shatter you to pieces." He smiled, "Have a nice day, Sherlock."

* * *

><p>Jim sent Sebastian out to check out the location around Charlie Milverton's flat. With the ginger wig and base cap, baggy pants and a wife beater, Sebastian looked like an overgrown chav. But at least Charlie wouldn't recognize him now.<p>

Then Jim waited for Sorcha. It was shower time, and, as much as he tried to do things alone, so far he hadn't figured out how to get into the bathtub without risking to bang his head somewhere. But, since he had matters to discuss with Sorcha, at least this time he didn't mind it too much. He knew Sorcha would accept the job, as she, like her brother, followed his orders to the letter, but asking her when he was naked would surely wipe any doubt off her mind in a second.

So when Sorcha had arrived and had helped (or, manoeuvred) him into the tub, he asked her for a head massage. He never did that; normally he would just send her out until he was finished with cleaning himself, but this time, he let her stay. The head massage was part of his plan; he had dealt with many women, and he knew about the chemical reactions between two human beings. And he knew that most of the hormones that attracted another human to oneself were situated at the neck. If even his naked body failed to do the trick, his smell would. And he would get a nice massage.

He let Sorcha work on his head for five minutes when he said, "Moran, I have a job for you."

"Consider it done."

"Good. I want you to go to 221B later today. I'd say about three o'clock. Dress your sexiest. To any onlooker, and I will assure you there'll be at least one, it has to look like you're off to a quickie with Sherlock."

"You really think anybody is going to believe that your favourite sniper's little sister is hitting it off with Sherlock Holmes? Or, that Sherlock Holmes is hitting it off with anybody, for that matter…"

"I know there is a possibility Milverton might get suspicious, but then again, he's just too much of a show-off to let go of the opportunity to get back at your family."

"Okay, I think you need to explain that to me."

Jim leaned back, "As I say, you get your sex on and go to Sherlock's. Stay there for… let's say, one hour. Get back outside, try and look a bit… dishevelled, you know, like you just had the most amazing sex of your life. One of Milverton's photographers will be outside, taking pictures of you. He'll send the pictures to Milverton, and I'll bet you a million Milverton will get in touch with you before the day is over. I don't know what he will ask of you, but it will be something huge. More than the last time, because, imagine how I would react if I knew one of my closest associates is fraternizing with Sherlock Holmes. Now, listen carefully: Because you are so badass, being my associate and all, you will _not_ accept anything over the phone, you will demand he'll meet you in his flat, or else, no deal. Don't worry, Sebastian is there as we speak, he'll cover you, and you'll be wearing a microphone and a camera. You'll find the equipment in your room. Try and get into every room of the flat. We need to find out where he hides the pictures. Don't knock him out, don't kill him, we might need him later. As long as we don't know whether he's got an insurance somewhere, he must not be harmed. Can you do that for me, Moran?"

"Of course. Anything you want." she answered. "Do you want me to sleep with him?"

"I don't care how you get the information I want, just get it."

"Yes, sir." Jim could hear the reluctance in her voice, but he decided not to comment on it. "Is there something else you want me to find out? About his associates?"

"No, that would be it. Try not to raise suspicion in him."

"Will do."

* * *

><p>It was about 6 P.M. when Sorcha got back. When she entered Jim's office, he had to grin, "That's a sight for sore eyes. If I didn't know any better, I'd say you and Sherlock had the time of your lives. Look at your hair."<p>

Sorcha straightened it, "You owe me a raise, Jim. While I was wriggling on the floor, trying to imitate sex with a man, he was lecturing me about how people don't care for 537 different types of tobacco ashes. When I told him I didn't care either, he stormed off into his room and didn't come out until I was done. Then Mrs Hudson offered me a tea and apple pie – I sneaked some out for you, by the way- and told me how glad she was that Sherlock finally found a woman, and a nice one at that, and that she hoped I would stop by more often, because it's really dull for a woman living with two man, one of them being crazy. Or you could just buy me a Birkin Bag."

"I'm still on the waiting list." Jim's eyes widened when he wrapped the napkin off a rather large piece of cake. "Delicious. Did Milverton call?"

"Nope. And I didn't see any photographer. Are you sure there was somebody?"

"Yes, he confirmed me he saw you. I asked him to describe what you were wearing. You look very nice, by the way."

"Why, thank you. I'm always flattered when you see the woman in me, and not just the secretary."

Jim grinned while taking a bite of the pie, "Come on, as if you didn't like the naughty secretary treatment I gave you every now and then. Oh my god, this is delicious. Try and get the recipe."

"Will do. You've got sugar on your lip, by the way."

"You want some? I might not be able to pound you like I used to do, but I'm still a good kisser."

"I'm sorry darling, but I already had some mind-blowing sex with Sherlock Holmes….'s carpet. You'll have to wait."

"That's a crying shame, Moran… because if I could like I want, I would…"

_But Momma I'm in love with a criminal…. (1)_

Jim smiled, "Your phone's ringing, Moran. Guess we have to postpone this."

Sorcha rolled her eyes and picked up, "Sorcha Moran?" A pause, then she signalled to Jim. "Of course I remember you. What do you want?"

Jim nodded, and picked up his own phone.

_Hey sexy. Milverton just called. See you at my place tonight. JM. X_

And at 221B Baker street, Sherlock smiled.

* * *

><p>(1) Britney Spears - <em>Criminal<em>

* * *

><p><strong>So yeah, she is in love with him. How can you not be in love with him. <strong>


	10. This dance will hurt like hell

**You are being so sweet to me. Thank you so much for your kind reviews. Here's my gift to you**

**Disclaimer: see chapter One, plus, title from this song taken from Nightwish's _Bare Grace Misery._  
><strong>

**WARNING: mentions of noncon, but nothing graphic.  
><strong>

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter Nine: This dance will hurt like hell<br>**

_8: 23 P.M. – Five days to a scandal_

Jim and Sherlock sat in Jim's smaller office, watching his computer screen. Sherlock was mildly impressed, "A very good camera you've got there. My brother would be jealous. Where is it hidden?"

"Her necklace. The microphone is in her earring, so she can hear us too, if you push that button over there." He tried it, "You're hearing me, Moran?"

"Loud and clear, boss."

"Good." He leaned back again, "I hope Milverton won't notice the camera, though. It's the best I could do on such short notice, but he's an expert."

"Well, if she is wearing the same clothes she wore this afternoon, he will have other things to look at."

Jim chuckled, "Shame Ms Adler is dead. She betted me five grand you wouldn't know where to look."

Sherlock didn't answer, not only because he wouldn't have known what to say, but because Charlie Milverton had now opened the door and let Sorcha in.

They couldn't see his face, but all two of them could imagine the smile on his face. "Sorcha Moran. A bit older than I remember you. Come on in, darling."

"Don't call me darling. What do you want?"

"I told you what I want. A million pounds, your body, and the head of your boss."

"And I told you that's not gonna happen."

Sherlock frowned, "He wants your head?"

"Doesn't everybody? Now, you concentrate on what you see, I concentrate on what they are saying."

Sherlock let his eyes wander over the computer screen. Sorcha was in Charlie's living room now. "I've been there. They're not there. We need to see the bathroom and the bedroom." He pushed the button, "Ms Moran, the bedroom."

"… not rat Jim out, Charlie, and you know that. For the rest…" her voice sounded so desperate Jim actually had to remind himself she was just acting, "… I agree."

Charlie Milverton chuckled, "I've been waiting for this moment since I first laid eyes on you, Sorcha. Does Jim know what you do when you're not by his bedside?" Both Jim and Sherlock froze; did Milverton already know about Jim's condition?

Luckily Sorcha managed to hide her surprise, "What do you mean, by his bedside?"

"Oh come on, you can't fool me. I'm sure he's doing you every night since his return. But tonight, it will be my turn…" The charming attitude was gone; now Milverton showed his true face. And it was hideous, to say the very least. "I will have my fun with you, and you'll even pay me for it. Doesn't that sound just great?" Sorcha turned around so that the camera was pointed at Charlie, and Jim and Sherlock could see his face; the face of a man who knew had won the battle. "Maybe I'll take a few pics and send them to Jim."

Sorcha's voice was trembling when she said, "I… can I please use your bathroom first… I don't feel so well."

"Sure…"

* * *

><p>Inside the bathroom, she locked the door and whispered, "Guys, I am in the bathroom. Tell me what to do."<p>

Sherlock answered, "Turn around, slowly. I want to see the whole bathroom."

"This is ridiculous."

"Do as he says, Moran. You're doing well so far. Sebastian is outside, you don't have to worry about anything." Jim said.

"Wait, stop there. Look into those drawers, between the towels."

"Nothing."

"The other?"

"No. No. And no. There is nothing here, Sherlock."

Sherlock nodded, "Then the bedroom it is."

"Shite…"

"Moran, get a grip on yourself." Jim murmured. "You know what to do. As soon as we see something, we'll tell you, you slap him, get the pictures and jump out of the window. Are we clear on that?"

"Yes, boss. I'm going back outside now."

"Good." They watched her leaving the bathroom again.

Charlie smiled when he saw her, "Everything alright now?" She nodded, "Good. Then pray, go inside." Sherlock tensed; this was the moment, now he had to concentrate. A bed. A bedside table. Bookshelf. Guitar with an amplifier. Desk. On the desk a laptop. A lamp. More books…. A laptop. And a USB stick plugged into it…

Jim noticed it, too. He hit the button, "Moran. Tell him to show you the picture of you. You don't believe him unless you see it."

"I want to see the picture."

"You're not in the position of making demands here, little hoe."

"If I don't see the picture, I'm not going to sleep with you. Come on. You have to understand me. This isn't really a pleasure."

"It's not supposed to be, Sorcha. It's supposed to hurt you, your brother, and your boss. But okay." He walked over to the laptop and hit a key. The picture of Sorcha popped up immediately.

Jim hit the button again. "He doesn't have the pictures on the computer. They are on the stick. Try to get the stick, Moran." They could hear her actually swallow. And Jim knew why. "There is only one possibility to get it. She has to wear him out so he will fall asleep." Sherlock was surprised to hear he sounded somehow bothered. "Moran, you hear me? Initiate. Don't give him time to overpower you. You need to last until he's out. I'm sorry." The last bit he added on an impulse.

Sorcha's eyes rested on the screen for a second, then she turned back to Milverton, "Okay. Then I guess we should get it on. I want this to be over as soon as possible. You'll get the money tomorrow."

"I don't care much about the money… Go on, lean over the desk and present your arse to me, sweetheart."

"Aren't you going to stop this, Jim?" Sherlock asked.

Jim shook his head, "No. She's used to it."

"I see. You're sweating, and your knuckles are white. You are bothered, aren't you?" No answer. "Every person has their pressure point."

"I'm not every person, Sherlock."

"I see." Sherlock leaned back and watched the screen. "So, this is what this feels like?"

"No, normally it's less screaming. Well, depends on the situation."

* * *

><p>It lasted so long that Jim had to call Sebastian twice to assure him his services weren't needed so far. When finally Charlie was done, Jim and Sherlock could hear the soft sobbing from Sorcha. And, Sherlock noticed, Jim had changed from bothered to full of hatred for Milverton. Sherlock really didn't want to be in Milverton's place right now.<p>

So he simply said, "It's over."

"It is…" He pushed the button again, "Moran… remember the stick…."

But it didn't come so far. Suddenly, the image from the camera jerked, and a screeching sound issued through the microphone. Sherlock put his hands over his ears, but Jim only flinched.

Then a voice, "Hello, Jim. Sorry if that hurt. Did you really think I was that stupid? Of course I knew Sorcha had a microphone. Did you really think I would tell her where I have the pictures? Now, I could of course kill her, but I want you to see her. She was good fuck though, you broke her in quite nicely. Now, tell Sherlock to keep away from me. He can't beat me. And you can't beat me either. So, keep away from me. Good bye." The camera image jerked again as Milverton pushed Sorcha through his flat and out on the floor.

She remained there, sitting, only her breathing could be heard. Jim pushed the button, "Come home, Moran. I'm sorry it was all in vain."

She whispered, "It wasn't. I got the stick."

Both Sherlock and Jim looked at each other, then Jim said, "You definitely earned yourself the Birkin Bag, now. Come home. Sebastian is waiting outside." He turned the microphone off. "And he will kill me if he sees his sister like that."

Sherlock nodded, "Probably. Tell Sebastian to stop by Baker Street and pick John up. In case she'll need a doctor…. So, this is it, then? The end of our collaboration?"

"It is. When Sorcha comes back, we'll discuss the matter, and you can tell your client everything is fine. Our ways part, dear Sherlock. Tomorrow, you and I will be back to our old ways."

"I'll look forward to it."

* * *

><p><strong>***The End***<strong>

**?**


	11. You're my protection

**Ladies and gents, now we're talking! Thank you SO MUCH for your reviews. No further ado: here's your reward.**

**Disclaimer: See chapter one, plus, title from this chapter taken from Pink's **_**Sober.**_

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter Ten: You're my protection<strong>

_10: 40 P.M. – Five days to a scandal_

Sebastian had to steady his sister when they got home. He gave Jim a look, but said nothing when he noticed his boss was not nearly as calm as he pretended to be. Jim didn't even ask questions, but sent Sorcha immediately to his bedroom so John could have a look at her. John was done after half an hour, and came back out with Sorcha again.

She sat down on the couch, reached into her shoe and brought out the stick. She even managed a crooked grin, "I snatched it when he had his eyes closed. He was so happy about his triumph he didn't even bother to check if it was still there before he threw me out." She gave it to Sebastian who handed it to Jim.

Jim put it into his laptop and checked it, "Over two-hundred pictures. The folder's not even password-protected."

Sherlock looked him over the shoulder, "There. That's my client."

"And here are the videos of you and John." Jim pulled the stick out again and handed it to Sherlock. "There you go, sexy. The End."

"Indeed."

"You could say 'Thank you for fixing it, Jim', you know?" Sherlock didn't answer. "Oh well. Guess I can live without it. It was a pleasure working with you, Sherlock. Maybe we can do that again sometime. Sebastian, will you be so kind as to drive John and Sherlock home again?"

"Yes, boss."

When the three men had left, Jim said, "You know I cannot say things like this in front of other people. But I owe you an apology, Moran. I'm sorry. I really am." She shook her head. "No, Moran, I want to say this. I underestimated him. It was a silly mistake, and you had to pay for it."

"I should have never…."

"No. _I_ should have never sent you there. I should have expected he would want to hurt you rather than have sex with you, and I should have given you orders to protect yourself rather than get that stick. But believe me, Sorcha, he will pay for it."

She shook her head again, "I just want to forget."

"That's not an option. Nobody touches my Sorcha and gets away with it. What did John say?"

"It's okay. It'll heal soon. I was stupid, I should have initiated it, like you said, but when he told me to lean over the desk, I thought this was the perfect moment to get the stick. It was my fault."

"It's not your fault, Moran, it's his. And he will pay." Jim bit his lip, "You did a great job today, Moran, and believe that I appreciate your loyalty. But, for the future, if something like this happens again, forget your orders. No job is as important as you."

It elicited a smile from her, "Thank you. That means a lot to me, Jim."

"You're welcome. I want you to sleep here tonight. By now Milverton must have noticed that his stick is missing, and I will not risk him getting too close to you again. Sebastian will watch the house, but I want to have you here with me tonight."

"That's really not necess…."

"Moran, it's an order. You will stay here tonight." He smiled a bit, "And no, this is not one of the orders you're allowed to forget."

* * *

><p><em>11:59 P.M. – 1 Minute to Midnight<em>

Sorcha slept as soon as her head had touched the pillow. Jim was wide awake. He could hear Sebastian humming outside. While Sorcha had been in the shower, Sebastian had given Jim a rather large piece of his mind, and Jim was sure Sebastian would have beaten him to a pulp if he wasn't physically challenged. He didn't even mind it. He knew he had been wrong, and he was ready to take the blow. It was only worry that drove Sebastian to say the things he did, and Jim didn't blame him. As he lay next to Sorcha now, he knew that this had been the last time he'd sent her on a job like that. Never again would he risk her getting harmed. It wasn't very most-dangerous-man-in-London-ish, but he was a human being, and he got attached to people, in his own twisted ways. Like to Sebastian. And to Sorcha. And having to witness, to see and hear what was done to her, had shaken him, more than he had let out to anybody.

He did something he had never done before. He reached out as well as he could, and pulled the sleeping woman into his arm, to his chest. She stirred only slightly. He would have to make sure to roll her over to the other side of the bed again before she woke up, but for now, he could as well be nice for once. He remembered the other times she had slept in his bed. Or napped, rather, because he would usually throw her out when she was awake again. Never letting her stay over the night. He sighed and rested his head on hers. He couldn't count the times he had had sex with her. And enjoyed it. And yes, he did care about her, even more than she knew. He hid it well, knowing that his affection for both Moran siblings was a weakness that his enemies weren't allowed to know. But moments like those he had lived through this evening made it all too clear to him that he would break anybody would hurt either of the siblings. They had helped him through the worst time in his life. Both had proven loyal to him in school, when people, most notably Carl Powers, had bullied him. It had shown Jim that he could count on Sorcha and Sebastian, and he had never forgotten it. Which was why he had helped them both back when Sebastian was in trouble, and had taken bloody revenge on Milverton's brother. And he would do the same now. Never mind his useless legs. He sighed once more, than planted a cautious kiss on Sorcha's hair, and closed his eyes.

He was violently awoken some time later when somebody pulled his hair and threw him on the floor. Before he was fully awake, there was a gun in his face and a whisper, "Don't move, or you'll die. For real this time." Charlie Milverton. And four, no five, other people. So he had minions. Two of them were now shaking Sorcha awake. Before she could scream, one of them put his hand over her mouth. "Keep her quiet." Then Charlie turned to Jim, "Where is my stick?" Jim didn't answer. "Where is my stick, Jim? Do I really have to hurt you?"

Jim chuckled, "Please, don't be boring. Do you really think I have the stick here?"

"Then where is it?"

"Go and look for it, I suggest."

"No, you will go and get it for me. Get up, or you'll die." Jim didn't move. "I said, get up." He motioned to his men to pull Jim upright, but as soon as they let go of him again, he dropped to the floor. "Stop playing games, Jim, I am not in the…."

"Chuck?" the man who held Sorcha motioned to the wheelchair.

Charlie followed his motion and then looked back at Jim, "You're kidding me, right?"

"Yeah, I keep the chair for decoration purposes."

Charlie laughed, "Oh, this is the highlight of my day. The world's greatest criminal, a fucking gimp. Well, not exactly my highlight, I guess the sex with Sorcha was way better. Now, where is my stick, Jim?"

"Where is Sebastian?"

"Out cold. Don't worry, he'll wake up again. Where is my stick? Tell me, or I will make sure Ms Moran here will have some more tonight. I would happily repeat my session from this afternoon." He signaled his men, and one of them pushed Sorcha on the bed, holding her down, and ripped her shirt open.

"Okay, stop!" Jim yelled. "Sherlock has your stick."

Charlie rolled his eyes, "The git just can't let it be. Okay, here's what we're gonna do now." He turned to Sorcha, "I will take Jim with me. You will call Sherlock and get my stick back, _with _all the pictures. I give you till midnight. We will meet at Clapham Junction. You'll give me my stick back, and I'll give you your boss back. If you try and fuck with me, Sorcha, I will strangle him. Are we clear?"

Sorcha looked at Jim, who nodded, "We are clear."

"Good. And I sincerely hope this is the last time I have to deal with any of you. Let her go and help me pick him up."

They weren't too gentle, but Jim didn't make so much as a sound. Before they dragged him out, he managed to say, "Ask Sebastian what I told him in the cellar."

He got a punch to the face, and Charlie said, "You better do what I ask, no matter what secret clues he gives you. I am serious, Sorcha." Then they left.

Sorcha remained sitting on the bed, trembling. It took her a full ten minutes to get a grip on herself. She called Sebastian first, but he didn't pick up. Oh God, what if he was seriously hurt? But she had to focus now. So she called Sherlock.

He picked up, "What is it?"

"Sherlock. Charlie Milverton was here. He kidnapped Jim. I need the stick back."

A pause, then Sherlock said, "I'll be there in twenty minutes. Don't touch anything."

* * *

><p><strong>Not the end :o)<strong>


	12. It couldn't be much more from the heart

**I totally apologize for all the emails you got about Chapter 10. The site wouldn't properly upload the chapter. Thank God it worked this morning, finally. **

**Disclaimer: See Chapter one, plus, title from this chapter taken from Metallica's _Nothing else matters._  
><strong>

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 11: It couldn't be much more from the heart<br>**

_2:03 A.M. – Four days to a scandal_

Sherlock had rushed in and immediately started working, while John and Sorcha tried to wake Sebastian up. Indeed, he was out cold. John feared he might have a concussion, but was positive that he wouldn't need a hospital, although he strongly recommended it, just because he was a doctor and took this job quite seriously.

When Sebastian finally cracked an eye open, he saw John's finger, followed by the command, "Follow my finger, Colonel."

"…. Jim…." He closed his eyes again, moaning. Suddenly he opened them again and shot upright, "Milverton!" He looked around. "Where is he?" Then he looked at John, "What are you doing here? Where is Jim? And my sister?"

"Sorcha is in the kitchen, preparing tea. Jim…" John hated that again, even years after he had left Afghanistan, he was still the one having to bring bad news to people. Especially people with a temper like Moran's. "Jim has been abducted by Milverton. But don't worry, Sherlock is already at work. He will find him."

"Like fuck he will. SORCHA!" he yelled.

She entered shortly thereafter, "There is no need for screaming like that."

"Is it true what pint-size here said? You called Sherlock Holmes to help find Jim?"

"Well, I wouldn't have had to call him at all if the man paid to protect Jim would do his work properly… Oh wait! That was you!"

"Well, I apologize, but they were six, and I was alone, because Jim told me to dismiss all the others so nobody would know you slept here. I'm good, but even I have limits! What are Milverton's demands?"

Sorcha calmed down again, "Finally you're focussing on the important part. He wants his stick back. I am to meet him at midnight in Clapham Junction. He says he'll bring Jim back."

"I see." Sebastian wiped his face; his head hurt, but he remembered the order Jim had given him in the cellar. "You will not do it."

"I'm sorry, I think I just heard you saying I'm not going to do it."

"Exactly. And send those two away."

"Like fuck I will do that."

"Sorcha, I am serious. I got orders from Jim not to negotiate, even at the cost of his life."

Sorcha understood, "That was what he meant when he said 'Ask your brother what I told him in the cellar'… Sebastian, you can't be serious, this is Jim we're talking about. All we have to do is give Milverton back that stick…"

Sebastian shook his head, "Sister, you are too naïve. Now that he has got his hands on Jim, do you seriously think he will let him alive?"

Sorcha's eyes turned to stone, "I don't care. I don't plan like this, Sebastian. The only thing on my mind right now is doing anything to get Jim back, and if we only stand the slightest chance of getting him back by giving Milverton this stick, I will do it. Even without your help."

John had to admit this was almost as fascinating as watching Sherlock and Mycroft fight. As always, he had no idea on whose side he was. Going with Sebastian's plan was tempting, because it would mean the death of James Moriarty. Then again, he was a human being and, let's face it, he would do anything to get Sherlock back if this had been him missing.

Said Sherlock was just coming in, all coat-swishing and restless. "They got in through the back window."

"No shit." Sebastian murmured. "Why are you here anyways? I don't like you being here."

"Your sister called me because your boss has been abducted, and she wants the stick back. Of course, that won't be happening. But for as long as Milverton got Jim, he's got something to blackmail you, and therefore I am willing to help you find your boss."

"I don't trust you, Holmes."

"Well, you wouldn't have to if you had done your job properly. You should be able to stand your ground even against six. After all, you had a gun. But then again, your whole alarm system failed. Especially someone like Jim should have a fool proof alarm system."

"That's what happens when you think that no one could ever get to you…" Sebastian said.

"He should know better by now. Bad news is, I did not find something valuable. Nothing that could point me towards where Jim is being held. John, we're leaving."

"You do realize that Milverton will come for you next? He knows where the stick is." Sebastian suddenly said. "And everybody knows by now what lengths you go to protect your boyfriend."

"I am not…"

But Sherlock stopped in his tracks. "What do you want to imply?"

"That you fucking better give us that stick back, before something happens." Sebastian knew this would probably cost him his own life, as he was deliberately ignoring Jim's orders. But fuck, he wanted his boss back just as much as his sister did. "We can end this tonight. So what if he continues blackmailing other people? Not our division. You and I, Holmes, we both want the same thing."

"Which would be?"

"Keep safe the people we care about."

"The main difference is that if Milverton gets that stick back, Moran, he will still have the video with John and me breaking into his flat."

"Which he will never use unless you step on his toes again."

"How can you be so sure about that?"

"Because he as well as we will be happy when this is over…" Sebastian took a deep breath. "Sherlock, I beg you. Give me the stick. Give us a chance to save Jim." He hated begging. He was a fucking military man after all, someone who had been taught never to beg for anything. And he wouldn't do it for anybody else but James Moriarty. And for him, he would even crouch in the dirt, if that was what it took.

Sherlock didn't react, but John did. With almost the same history as Moran, he knew what it took the man to do this. "Sherlock, let's do it. We can still get our hands on the tapes. Mycroft can help, I'm sure, and even if you don't want to involve him, he will certainly do it." Of course, he would love to see Jim Moriarty dead today rather than tomorrow. But he wasn't a machine, and he understood Sebastian Moran perfectly: he would do the same for Sherlock anytime.

And Sherlock could never say no to John; not anymore, "Okay. If you say so. Maybe it would be the best idea to involve Mycroft right now."

But here, Sorcha and Sebastian raised their heads, and Sebastian said, "If you involve your brother…"

The corners of Sherlock's mouth twitched, "Still haven't gotten over what he did to Jim? Don't worry, I will not involve him. But for the record, again, if all of this is one of Jim's plans to 'make me dance', and I find out he and Milverton are in fact teaming up, I _will not_ hesitate to tell Mycroft where he can find this nice little house. And this time, he will not let any of you go." He put up the collar of his coat and said, "I'll send one of my friends to drop the stick at Clapham Junction tonight. Let me know how this ends. John…" He motioned John to leave.

* * *

><p>Outside, John asked, "Are you really going to give them the stick?"<p>

"Yes. But I will not leave them alone there. This is why I didn't tell them to come and fetch the stick at Baker Street. Get your gun ready, John. This will end tonight. And if we are lucky, we can get rid of the three most dangerous men in London in one go."

John stopped in his tracks, "You want to kill all three of them? Moran, Moriarty and Milverton?" Sherlock didn't answer properly, only muttered something under his breath. John wasn't too sure what he said, but he thought he had heard something along the lines of 'keeping you safe'.

* * *

><p><strong>Aw, Sherlock is so sweet. <strong>


	13. Oh Sinnerman, where you gon' run to?

**And another chapter. This is going to be the last one in a while, coz I'm going on holidays :o) Back to soul city. I'll be back at the end of next week. Until then, shower me with love. And go and read "The Two Kings" and shower its author with reviews, too. **

**Disclaimer: See Chapter One, plus, title from this chapter taken from Nina Simone's _Sinnerman_  
><strong>

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter Twelve: Oh Sinnerman, where you gon' run to?<strong>

_11:59 P.M. - One minute to Midnight, three days and one minute to a scandal_

The Moran siblings had fought the whole day about who should be at Clapham Junction that night. Sebastian, ever the protective brother, had threatened to lock his sister in Jim's torture cell and strap her to the rack should she make a single move towards the station. Sorcha however had tried to reason with him, saying that Milverton was expecting her, and that Sebastian's presence would only endanger the whole deal. It had taken some time to convince him, but finally, he agreed to stay at home waiting for them to get back, 'holding the fortress', so to say, if Milverton planned to send men over to Jim's house while they were away.

Of course, the truth was a whole different thing. So, when Sorcha got out of her car at Clapham Junction, Sebastian was already there, rifle in his hand. He saw Holmes's little friend handing the stick to Sorcha and disappearing. Clapham Junction was surprisingly empty that night, as if God wanted the deal to happen, and as if he wanted him to shoot.

And then suddenly, Sorcha's mobile phone went off. She glanced at it, looked around, and then made her way towards the stairs leading out of the station. Sebastian followed her, cautiously. Nobody would see him, he knew that. Even the tigers in India never noticed his presence. But he had noticed theirs, and he had always gotten his prey. So he followed his sister as she left Clapham Junction, walking through dark streets, passing empty houses, and finally arriving at a backstreet.

Sorcha had seen much in her life; of course, she had been living with Jim Moriarty most of the time. But the sight she was greeted with even managed to throw her off balance for a second. In the middle of the backyard were two of Milverton's people, carrying Jim between them. Jim was still only clad in his boxers and wife beater, his legs hanging uselessly below him. _God, they are so damn thin…_ His hair was dishevelled; one eye was swollen shut, probably from the punch they had thrown at him last night. He looked so damn fragile that it almost broke Sorcha's heart. But he didn't seem injured apart from the obvious. Oh God, how she hoped he wasn't. One other minion stood behind them, gun aimed at Jim's head. Another stood somehow apart, relaxing against one of the trashcan, or so he pretended, because Sorcha could see his eyes darting back and forth, obviously looking for anything that could disturb the little get together. The last one, finally, stood right next to Charlie Milverton. Bodyguard, it seemed.

Charlie had a wide smile plastered on his face, "Sorcha. I hoped you would come. And I hope that you came alone…"

"I am alone, Charlie." She murmured. "Jim, are you alright?" Her only concern. She didn't care about anything else anymore.

Jim raised his head slowly, but the movement betrayed his state of mind. The angry glare in his eyes was the real thing. "You had orders, Moran."

She had to swallow, "I'm sorry."

Charlie chuckled, "Yes, that is all very sweet, but how about we finish this. Properly. Give me the stick, Sorcha." She reached into her pocket and brought it out. "That's a good girl. Throw it over to me."

"Moran, don't!" Jim hissed. "We don't negotiate."

Charlie rolled his eyes, "Can you silence him, _please_?" They were trained. Within the blink of an eye, one of them had punched Jim, thrown him on the ground, knelt on his back, pulled his hair so that his head was up, and placed a knife at his throat. Jim closed his eyes as the blade made contact with his skin. Charlie grinned, "Look at this. Always talking big, but even you are afraid of dying. Now, Sorcha, give me the pictures, or I will tell my man to kosher slaughter him."

"I said _don't_, Moran. That's an _order_." Jim felt the knife pressing to his skin, already drawing some blood. He wasn't afraid of dying. He just couldn't watch how Sorcha was struggling, how _her_ feelings would lead to _his_ defeat. "You know what happens when you _ignore_ orders."

"I don't care." She just couldn't watch this any longer. She gave the stick a last look, then threw it towards Charlie who caught it. "Let go of him, now."

"Surely, sweetheart. I'll have to leave, although I would love to see your punishment." He packed the stick away and walked over to Jim. "Jim, I said it before, I will repeat it now. You have a reputation of being intelligent, so maybe you will understand it this time. If you, or Sherlock, ever mess with me again, I will become seriously angry, and you really don't wanna see that. So take _this_ as a friendly warning." He delivered a vicious kick to Jim's face; a bone snapped, Jim screamed out. "Good bye." He spit at Jim's face and left, together with his men.

Sorcha waited until they were around the corner, then raced at Jim's side, "Jim? Jim, can you hear me? I am so sorry… I will call a doctor, everything will be okay."

* * *

><p>Sebastian felt his grip around the rifle tighten. Those fucking bastards, treating Jim like this. Oh, he would make them pay. But he waited, waited patiently, until they left, making sure no one of them would get back to finish off Jim or Sorcha. When he saw his sister then kneeling next to Jim, caressing his hair and muttering comforting nonsense to him, he knew he could leave them alone and follow Milverton and his people. After all, he had to get even with them. Being knocked out wasn't something he handled too well, and he would definitely pay them back. Maybe not now, as the only thing he wanted to know now was that they all went home.<p>

* * *

><p>Sherlock and John had decided early in the game that striking now was no good. Not only were they seriously outnumbered, but also Sebastian Moran was not present, although both were pretty sure he was hiding somewhere in the neighbourhood. Sherlock motioned John to retreat; they would wait at Milverton's place for the man. Hopefully, he would come alone, without his minions, but with the stick.<p>

* * *

><p>Jim's nose hurt like hell. It wasn't the first time his nose was broken. The first time had been Carl Powers, stomping on his face when he was already lying in the dirt, crying, humiliated…. He blocked it out again. But there was something that was exactly the same as back then. Just like back then, his head was lying in Sorcha's lap, with her fingers running through his hair, his head tilted to the side so no blood would run down his throat… Back then she had sat with him until he had been able to stand up again. He wondered how she would know the moment was right this time, since standing up was out of the question. He should probably ask her when she planned on bringing him home, but then again, this was starting to get rather cosy. Apart of course from the nose and the blood and all.<p>

Now, she leaned forward and planted a short kiss on his front and whispered, "I'm sorry I didn't follow your orders. I couldn't. I'll take whatever punishment you have for me, but I just couldn't let them hurt you."

Jim kept his eyes closed. Punishment. He would have to punish her; not even the Moran siblings were allowed to disobey his orders. But it could wait, "Where is Bastian?"

"He's after Milverton. Or at least I guess. He actually told me he would stay at home and wait for me to come back in pieces because I disobeyed, but we both know he's somewhere with his Peggy Sue, and probably now following Milverton. Let's hope he'll get the stick back."

* * *

><p>That thought actually only occurred to Sebastian when the men he was following had split, and Milverton was walking back home alone. He toyed with the idea to just shoot the man, but Jim had given clear orders that he should not be hurt, and Sebastian would never kill somebody without a clear order from Jim. Well, except for Mycroft Holmes, maybe. But he could at least try and get the stick back. Milverton was alone, and, as far as Sebastian could see, unarmed. It would only take him a few calls to some old contacts to get rid of Milverton for good. (Yes, he still had them. Let Holmes have his homeless network. Sebastian knew people that would do anything for money. Anything for heroin…) All those fancy cameras, his junkie friends could get their fix for a month. But it was too risky. Cold turkey, they would rat him out to the police. He needed to do this alone. After all, he owed Milverton one. When Milverton had entered his flat, Sebastian climbed the scaffolding. He didn't care about cameras or anything, he was under Jim's protection, and nothing could harm him.<p>

"Do we let him do it for us, or do we help him?" John asked. Both him and Sherlock had watched Moran, moving with an ease that clearly showed the military-man-gone-criminal in him. "Or we could also just get rid of him. After he gets the stick of course."

"He isn't after the stick." Sherlock answered. "The stick doesn't mean anything to him. The only reason he's here is revenge. You have heard it; Milverton is the reason Moran got discharged. The stick is only an extra. We won't even need to fight him to get it…." Suddenly he paused. "He's walking into a trap."

"What do you mean?"

"Oh come on, John, even you can't be that stupid. No offense." Sherlock's eyes were fixed on the building. "A man like Sebastian Moran doesn't let his sister do an exchange with a man like Milverton without giving her protection. Milverton knew that Moran was there, and he also knew that, with Sorcha looking after Jim, Moran would probably follow him. Why would he send his men away then if he knew he was being followed by one of the best in the country?"

"Because he knew he could take Moran all by himself."

"And how could he do that?"

"A gun. But Moran can't be that stupid to not sense the danger."

"No, he isn't. He is just reckless. He survived being captured by the Taliban, he thinks nothing can harm him…."

"Wait a second, how do you know...? Oh, of course. Mycroft. He was captured by the Taliban?"

"Yes. Mycroft thinks that is what made him go over the edge."

"The right man to deal with Jim Moriarty then. But what do we do now?"

Sherlock opened his mouth, "We…."

_BANG!_


	14. I told you I was trouble

Here I am again! Thanks for your patience. No further ado.

**Disclaimer: See chapter one, plus, the title of this chapter is from Amy Winehouse's _You know I'm no good_  
><strong>

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter Thirteen: I told you I was trouble<br>**

_1:03 A.M. - Three days to a scandal_

John Watson didn't like Sebastian Moran. Of course, how could he? Moran was James' Moriarty right-hand-man, and James Moriarty was a bastard. But Moran was a soldier, just like John, and sensing a fellow soldier was in danger was not something John could deal with. Even if it was Moran.

So he jumped out of the hedge where he was hiding with Sherlock and raced up the scaffolding, gun in his hand. When he arrived at the window he pointed the gun immediately at Milverton. Moran was kneeling on the floor, left hand pressed to his right shoulder, hissing in pain.

Milverton, however leaned against the sink, a bored look on his face, "Oh, not you, too. What do I have to do to finally get rid of you all?" He pointed the gun at Sebastian's head, "Here we are again, Moran. I know you harbour some hatred against me, but you have to admit, London is much cosier than Afghanistan, isn't it?"

"Fuck… you…"

"You are an idiot to come here. You should go home, protecting your sister from the rage of that cripple. Actually, does he still get it up? If so, this might be a very bad day for little Sorcha, what do you think?" He chuckled, "What a great sight you make, Moran. Don't think I don't know who killed my brother." He approached Sebastian, the gun not wavering, "I know it was Jim Moriarty. And I intend to, at some point, take revenge. I couldn't do it tonight, business, you know. But I will. And what would be a nicer way of starting it than sending your body to him. His favourite sniper, fallen into a stupid trap." He grinned, but it was an evil grin, "But I won't do it. Chances are that Dr Watson shoots me if I shoot you, and I really don't want to die after the hassle I had with getting my stick back. You're allowed to leave. And, again, stop fucking messing with me! Off you go."

John thought about shooting him, but just like Jim, Sherlock was convinced the man had an insurance of some sort, and as long as they didn't know what it was… So he just continued pointing his gun at Milverton while he said, "Come on, Colonel, let's leave. You need to see a doctor."

Sebastian hesitated, but he knew very well that in his condition, he didn't stand a chance, even with his gun. So he got up, swaying, and, covered by John, got out of the window again. John's gun was still pointed at Milverton, and he only let the man out of his sight when he was back on the scaffold, too.

Sherlock was already waiting, and, as much as he tried to hide it, relieved when he saw John, "John."

"Sherlock." John of course noticed it. "We need to get him into a hospital. He's injured."

But Sebastian shook his head, "It's just a scratch. I can't go to a hospital. They'll catch me. I'm still on their "Wanted" list."

John put his gun away and took a look at Moran's shoulder, "It's not exactly just a scratch, it's quite a flesh wound, Colonel."

"Can you do it?" Sebastian asked, eyes locked with John's.

John nodded, "I will try my very best."

"Thanks, Captain Watson." And for the first time, there was no contempt in Moran's voice.

* * *

><p>"I can't believe it!" Jim was fuming, and the only one who wasn't impressed (read: scared out of their mind) was Sherlock. "Do you realize what you have done? Milverton will laugh his ass off at us!" His voice was no louder than usual, but the whispering was much more threatening. Sebastian actually wished his boss would be screaming. Screaming Jim was scary, but whispering Jim was as good as a death sentence. "I cannot believe what you have done. First you, Sorcha, disobey clear orders, and then you, Sebastian, go and get shot. I really don't know what's wrong with you two. I know insanity runs in your family, but I refuse to believe you both turned crazy on the same evening. So, how about an explanation? I'm waiting."<p>

Sebastian was the first to answer, "It's my fault, Jim. All of it. I should have stopped her. We should have stayed at home and let Milverton beat the living crap out of you. But we decided that we care too much about you to let that happen, so, if you want to punish somebody, punish me. I'll take the blame."

"Oh, this is sweet. But I will punish you both. But first of all, I have to think of what to do now."

John raised his head, "What do you mean?"

"Do you really think this is over? Oh no, it has just begun. You want that stick back, I'll get it for you. I have a consulting business, and failures don't look good in my statistics. Besides, now it has gotten personal for me. Even more than before." His eyes hardened, "Nobody calls me a cripple and treats me like that… _Not _again." Then he looked back at John and Sherlock, "I'll think of something. I'll call you once I have an idea."

Both John and Sherlock nodded, and John said, "We only have three days left. Can you do that?"

"Of course. Rest your head, Johnny Boy. The game is on."

And despite the fact that Jim looked like a rugby player after a particularly bad game, neither John nor Sherlock doubted him for a second.

* * *

><p>John and Sebastian disappeared into Jim's cellar ("believe me, Captain, this is the most sanitized room in the whole world") so that John could patch Sebastian up. After the blood was wiped away, it didn't look that bad anymore. Sherlock walked around the house, trying to find out if he had missed something that could give him another lead.<p>

Jim watched Sorcha; she stood before him, head lowered in submission, obviously scared, but doing well in keeping her composure. He waited, let her sweat a while, before he said, "What do you have to say?"

She raised her head and said, "I would like to quote somebody. 'But, for the future, if something like this happens again, forget your orders. No job is as important as you.'"

Jim grinned when he recognized the words he had said to her a mere day ago, "That concerned you, not me."

"Well, no job is as important as you are to me, Jim." she murmured. "I don't care if you punish me. I did the right thing."

He sighed, "Oh, Moran… I don't know what to say. Of course I have to punish you, just so my people don't think they can disobey me. I told Sebastian we don't negotiate."

"I didn't."

"No, you just gave in. Which is worse, actually."

"I just wanted to get you back alive. I lost you once already. A second time…"

"This is what I always told you. You cannot have feelings for me, Moran." He rolled his eyes. "But then again, your brother is not better."

"You saved me, yesterday, Jim." Sorcha said. "What do you think they would have done to me if you hadn't told them where the stick was? What is the difference between you and me, apart from the fact that you are my boss? Why didn't you just let them have their way with me if we don't negotiate?" She knew talking to Jim like that could as well result in more punishment.

Jim bit his lip, "Protection, Moran. I am a gentleman; no man will ever harm a woman in front of me."

"And I will never let anyone hurt you, because I swore on my life to protect you."

"We're going round in circles, Moran." He sighed again, "I understand you. I really do. And yes, I do feel flattered. Still, this must not happen again."

"I will do it again and again, Jim. If you want me to stop, you'll have to either kill me or… no, you have to kill me." She picked up Jim's pocket knife from the desk, walked around, knelt down in front of him and handed him the knife. Then she leaned her head back, baring her throat. "Go ahead."

Jim pressed the knife to her throat, watching as she flinched at the cold metal. The knife didn't break skin, though. "Don't be silly, Moran. I would never kill you. Even though you make it so easy right now." He let the knife wander over her face, in an almost tender way. "I could scar you, though. That would set a nice example." He put the knife back on the desk. "You know I would never hurt you permanently. And, believe me, you kneeling here doesn't make punishing you any easier." He sighed, "This gives me memories. Oh, what the hell, just tell the people I smacked you around a bit if they ask." He brought his hand up to her face, giving her cheek a few soft pats "See, now you're not even lying." He leaned forward, steading himself on the desk, and kissed the reddened spot, "Thank you, Moran. Thank you for caring."

"Thank you for protecting me, Jim." She brushed his hand with hers, only slightly. "I have always cared for you, you know that."

"I do…." He yawned. "It's late, and I'm tired. They wouldn't let me sleep. Could you help me, getting me into bed? I don't feel like the hassle tonight."

"Sure."

* * *

><p><strong>Bit of fluff there, but don't worry, it won't continue like that :o)<strong>


	15. Will it be me, will it be you?

**Disclaimer: see Chapter One, plus, title of this chapter taken from Jenny Lewis' _Bad man's world_.  
><strong>

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 14: Will it be me, will it be you?<br>**

_7:03 A.M. – Three days to a scandal_

Sherlock Holmes was out of ideas: it didn't happen often. Well, it never did. Which made it all the more frustrating, because he did not know what he could do about it: the combined efforts of the two greatest minds in London had failed to win against Charlie Milverton, the combined forces of the best sniper in the world and the best shot Sherlock knew had not wiped of the smirk of Milverton's face. But Sherlock refused to lose, just as Jim. In contrast to Jim, however, Sherlock had something valuable to lose as well as his reputation: Milverton had this video, and while he didn't care much for his own safety, knowing Mycroft would get him out of jail in the blink of an eye, John was involved too. And after having put John through three years of torture, Sherlock was determined to protect him now. At all costs. Just like John would do for him. It was time his loyalty was rewarded. And, as much as Sherlock loathed to go and ask somebody else for help, he had done it, asking his arch-enemy for support. Jim had done what he could, and Sherlock was sure that he was still planning and plotting, but he couldn't count on Jim. As much as Jim tried to deny it, he had a soft spot as well, which had been all too visible tonight: he cared for Sebastian and Sorcha. Sherlock had noticed how he had worried about Sebastian when John had looked after his wound, how he had flinched while Milverton had assaulted Sorcha. And both of them, Jim as well as he, would do anything to protect Sorcha, Sebastian and John. And it clouded their thoughts.

Sherlock, after hours and hours of thinking, finally gave up trying to find a way out all by himself, and picked up his mobile phone. Rolling his eyes, he dialled.

After a few beeps, someone picked up, "What could possibly make you call me this early in the morning?"

"Brother dear, how have you been?"

* * *

><p>Sherlock wasn't very fond of his older brother in general, but right now, he would have loved to just punch him. The self-satisfactory smile on his face was more than Sherlock could endure.<p>

As was the attitude, "And I thought the day would never come. Sherlock needs my help." Mycroft smiled.

Sherlock responded, "I don't really need your help. When I said "you", I meant the Secret Service or anything. Not you personally. The problem could involve some leg work and I know how much you hate that."

Mycroft tilted his head, "But obviously legwork alone is not enough… But, pray tell me, what could you possibly need my services for? I am intrigued."

Sherlock started, "Rakesha Reynolds slept with a man who is now blackmailing her. You know her husband, I'm sure? She asked for my service, I broke into Milverton's flat to get the incriminating pictures together with John, we got caught on a tape which is now in Milverton's possession. I turned to Jim Moriarty, and this should tell you how I think about you and your Secret Service. We got our hands on the stick, but had to give it back to Milverton when he kidnapped Jim. Now, I am turning to you."

The amused look that had been on Mycroft's face when Sherlock had started changed when Sherlock mentioned his association with Jim, "So, he is still alive, then?"

"Don't pretend you didn't know. Moran disappeared from right under your nose; you knew Jim was alive."

Mycroft rolled his eyes, "Of course I did. Where is he now?" Sherlock didn't answer. "Oh come on, you don't want to tell me you don't know?"

"I do. But right now, both of us should be more interested in getting to Milverton. I hear Ron Reynolds is actually quite a good politician, so I am sure you wouldn't want him to resign."

"That's true." Mycroft nodded. "Yet, there is another problem with this whole case, and lord, how I wish you would stop doing things like this." Mycroft leaned back in his chair, "Charlie Milverton is… closely associated with my people."

"What?" Of all the things Sherlock had expected, this was the last, "What do you mean?"

"He is one of the country's best sources. The perfect spy. His pictures have saved millions of lives."

"And ruined just as many, I'm sure. So, you're not going to help us? Sacrificing Ron and Rakesha Reynolds, millions of children in Africa, John Watson and me? Again?"

Mycroft sighed, "I understand that you still are a bit crossed…"

"Oh no, I am quite happy that you spilled all the beans about me to James Moriarty. You owe me your help, Mycroft."

"I helped you fake your death. Keeping John in the dark."

"So that I could capture Moriarty's men. And if you remember correctly, _you _let Moran slip right through your fingers."

"That was unfortunate, I agree. Well, I apologize, Sherlock, but I cannot give you Milverton just like this. I could be persuaded to trade, however." He locked eyes with Sherlock, "I'm sure the government would be able to talk Milverton into forgetting the tape and what is on it. In exchange for Jim Moriarty and Sebastian Moran."

A smile appeared on Sherlock's face, "You can't get to him all on your own?"

"Apparently not. My people say he is on the run."

Sherlock chuckled, "No, that is wrong. On the roll would fit better. He is in a wheelchair. Conversion disorder. But I've been to his house, and he is definitely not on the run. He is static."

Mycroft seemed surprised by the news, "He's in a wheelchair? How come?"

"Nobody knows. Could be the pretended suicide, could be the torture your men inflicted on him. Even his associates don't know."

A slight smile appeared on Mycroft's face, "Who would have thought the man capable of feeling something like this? Very fascinating. How many associates are we talking about?"

Sherlock got up, "I think this conversation is over. If you are not willing to give Milverton up, I'm not ready to give you what you want. Jim Moriarty is at least some sort of help. Goodbye, Mycroft."

* * *

><p>Mycroft let him walk away. When Sherlock had closed the door, he picked up his phone, "Ms [beep]. I think it is time we reinforce the security on my brother again. Tell the people to follow his every move. I want to be informed of any movement, any place he goes to, any phone call he makes." He hung up again and smiled; so, Jim Moriarty was in a wheelchair. It would be easy. As soon as he knew where Jim lived, he would strike. He would capture the man, and this time, he would not let him walk free, under no circumstances. They would bring him and Moran to a secure place and off them for good. Nobody would ask questions. The world would be a bit safer with the consulting criminal and his best man gone, and the spider web destroyed.<p>

The security was in place before long. And at 1:22 P.M., Sherlock Holmes called Jim Moriarty. And two minutes later, he took a cab that would bring him to Jim's house. The man in black who followed Sherlock was happy; promotion time.

* * *

><p><strong>Oh dear. As if poor Jim isn't having enough problems...<strong>


	16. This is a gang, ladies' bang

**Disclaimer: see chapter one, plus, title of this chapter taken from Rihanna's _G4L_  
><strong>

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 15: This is a gang, ladies' bang<strong>

_1:53 P.M. – 3 days to a scandal_

Jim was sitting behind his desk again when Sherlock arrived, but the rest of the scenery was completely different from their first meeting. No Sebastian standing at the door, no Sorcha standing behind the desk, no guns pointed at him. It was rather cosy; Sorcha was sitting on the couch, hair in a messy bun, reading a magazine while her brother was sitting next to her, cleaning his gun. But Sherlock was sure that, if he wanted, Sebastian Moran could still kill him in a heartbeat.

Jim raised his head from a folder he was reading, "You have news, you said. Please, have a seat. Would you like some tea?"

"Thank you, but I'm not drinking anything you offer. And yes, I do have news. I think I know what Milverton's insurance is."

"Good…"

"My brother."

The effect these two words had on all people present could not have been foreseen. Jim froze, only for a second though before he regained his composure. However, Sorcha and Sebastian were not nearly as good as their boss in hiding their feelings. Sebastian's long fingers closed around the gun he was holding so tightly that his knuckles turned white in an instant. And the hatred that had manifested in Sorcha's eyes would have made even men swallow.

Jim was the first to say something, "Well, then I guess your problem is solved. I'm sure your big brother will do anything to protect you after the last... incident."

"Unfortunately not. Again, the safety of his country is apparently more important to him than the safety of his own brother. He told me though he could be persuaded to trade. He'll talk to Milverton to forget about the tape with John and me on it in exchange for you and Moran."

Sebastian, in the blink of an eye, had loaded his gun, jumped from the sofa and was now holding the gun to Sherlock's temple, "That is out of the question, Holmes."

Jim rolled his eyes, "Sebastian, temper." Then he turned back to Sherlock. "I have to agree though. This is not going to happen. Although I guess you just lead your brother here to my house. That's unfortunate."

Sherlock grinned, "Don't worry. The man that was supposed to follow me is currently following a tall man wearing my coat and this ridiculous hat through the whole city. Far away from here."

"One of your homeless network, I suppose?" Jim was amused. "Well, I am surprised, Sherlock. But I reckon I was right from the beginning on. You are happy, with me back in the game."

Sherlock shook his head, "No. But it's a nice way to teach my brother a lesson. I've never helped him when we were young, I am not starting today. But, back to the important things. Charlie is under Mycroft's protection. What are we going to do about that?"

"I've been quite busy myself. We tried it the nice way, and it didn't work out. It's time to get naughty." He handed Sherlock the folder he was reading. "This young lady here is a student of history. Or at least, she pretends to be. Actually she's a prostitute. Full time. Strict parents, super rich, they wouldn't want their daughter to sell her body to men. Which is not true, but which is what she will tell Milverton over a nice beer tonight. Our photographer will make sure Milverton is at the place we want him to be. Of course Milverton will fall for it. Take her home, pretending to want sex, which she will give him. And then, she'll go right to Scotland Yard, ask for DI Lestrade and report a rape. They will take Milverton into custody, and we have at least 24 hours to get the stick. Easy peasy."

"This isn't the first rape you're staging?"

"Of course not."

"How do you know the woman?"

Jim motioned to Sorcha, "We all have just the same amount of contacts as you do, with your little homeless people. Don't worry, she's loyal to me. This time, we will win."

Sherlock, who still had Sebastian's gun at his temple, frowned, "And how are you going to… prepare her body? Lestrade might not be the brightest, but even he is bound to recognize a fake rape."

"The young lady likes it rough. And we know Milverton does, as well…" His voice had taken a dangerous tone. "After all, this isn't the first 'rape' in his books. This time, he will go down." The smile was back on Jim's face. "It will happen tonight. Try and get Lestrade to let you into Milverton's flat."

"Of course." Sherlock got up, Sebastian's gun followed him. "I will call as soon as I have a result. From Lestrade's phone. There's always a chance my brother is listening to my calls."

"Of course. What phone did you call me from earlier?"

"Mrs Hudson's landline." Sherlock turned to Sebastian's. "Your loyalty is sweet, but rest assured I have no intention to hand you over to my brother, so you can lower the gun and let me go."

"I'm warning you, Holmes…"

"Of course you do. Laters." He walked away.

When he was out the door, Sebastian asked, "Do you want any precautions taken against Mycroft Holmes?"

But Jim shook his head, "Not necessary."

"That means you trust him?"

"No. But what is the worst Mycroft could do to me? It's not like repeating what he did to me three years ago would have any effect on me now, with me not feeling anything below my waist."

Nobody noticed the tear Sorcha wiped away at this last comment.

* * *

><p>Sophie Taylor was loyal. The mysterious man who contacted her every now and then for her services had never once betrayed the trust she had in him; plus, he was a friend of Sorcha's, and Sorcha had always been good to her. She would have to sleep with about a hundred more men each month if it weren't for the money they send her so regularly. Never once would it occur to Sophie to fool them. So, when Sorcha had called her and given her instructions, she didn't hesitate; it was the least she could do to pay them back, and it would be easy. Of course, the cover story was fake; her parents were neither rich nor strict, and they didn't give a damn about how their only daughter earned her living. But she, the failed actor, would not have any trouble looking the part Sorcha's mysterious friend had given to her in this charade. He wanted this Milverton guy destroyed- he would be destroyed.<p>

It wasn't difficult figuring out that the man who had just entered the pub was the man she was supposed to play. The game was on.

* * *

><p>Sally Donovan and Anderson were on the nightshift. It was a calm night, so both had decided to sneak off for a minute to share some passionate kisses and hungry touches. Sorcha, who was watching the building for Jim, couldn't hide her smile when she saw Anderson pushing Sally against a window, letting his hands wander under her skirt.<p>

She picked up her phone and made a call, "Mrs Hudson? This is Sorcha speaking. Yes, I'm fine, how are you? Oh no, did you try the tea I recommended? I'm sure it'll help pretty soon. Listen, could you get Sherlock on the phone? His mobile is turned off, and I want to wish him good night… Yeah, total lovebird. Thank you so much."

She waited for a few minutes until Sherlock answered, "Who is there?"

"Anderson and Donovan. I'm currently watching him doing her against the window."

"Anderson. This is brilliant. He couldn't tell a real rape from a fake if he were directly involved. Is your friend already there?"

Sorcha looked around, "Staggering around the corner as we speak. Oh, she looks bad. I'll hang up now. Sweet dreams, lovey."

There was a pause until he answered, "Sweet dreams to you too… honey." Sorcha had never heard Sherlock's voice irritated like that. And Mrs Hudson's squeal in the background couldn't have been any happier.

* * *

><p><strong>Foolproof plan. Or is it?<strong>


	17. Feel it coming in the air

**Disclaimer: See chapter one, plus, title from this chapter taken from _Run this town - _Jay-Z feat. Kanye West and Rihanna  
><strong>

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 16: Feel it coming in the air<strong>

_3:25 A.M. – 2 days to a scandal_

If there was anything Mycroft hated about his job it was that he always had to get up so early; the government didn't sleep. But 3:25 A.M. was, even for the government, an ungodly hour. So when his phone rang at that time precisely, he was more than annoyed.

"Speak."

"Mr Holmes, this is Charlie Milverton's lawyer. My client has been arrested on the charges of rape a few hours ago by Scotland Yard. He wants you to come over."

_Sherlock…_ Mycroft wiped the sleep out of his eyes. "I'll be there soon." _Legwork. How he hated it._

* * *

><p>Charlie Milverton didn't look at all fazed when Mycroft sat down opposite him, "Took you quite some time, Holmesy."<p>

"I apologize, but I am not on call. What did you do?"

"I didn't do shit, baby. This slut was hitting on me in the bar. A whore. Rich parents. I figured it was an easy way to earn some extra money, you know, she being a prostitute, what would the parents think. I took her home, she tells me she likes it real hard, so I gave it to her like that. Oh, the screams, it was delicious. But how would you know? Anyways, next thing I know, some dipshit DI stands in front of my door, telling me she reported me for rape. And here I am. Now get me out."

Mycroft massaged his temples; this fake American slang that had always annoyed him the most about Milverton now really made him want to slap the man, "Did you rape her?"

"No, man, I am telling you, she told me she likes being pounded like a fucking dog, scratched, slapped, whatever."

"Were your cameras on?"

"Of course. But I gotta tell ya, man, for the innocent bystander, it will look like I actually raped her. You know, she screaming 'no, no' all the time, and I of course doing some dirty talk…" Milverton leaned over the table, "You know who is behind all this, don't you?"

_Sherlock…._ "I have no idea…"

"Jim Moriarty. Because I... sort of _defiled_ his little private slut, he wants to get back at me now, doing this."

"His little private… whom?"

"Sebastian Moran's little sister, Sorcha. Quite a fuck. Did her over my desk. Now Jim seems to be angry and wants to pay me back this way."

"There's another Moran?"

"Yes. Now, get me out of here." Charlie paused. "I'll even offer something in return."

"Whom did you catch in the act this time?"

Charlie chuckled, "Better than pictures, Holmes. I can bring you to Jim Moriarty."

Mycroft forgot all his government attitude, "You can?"

"Yes."

"How?"

"When little Miss Moran was at my flat, she apologized for a moment and went to the bathroom. Probably puking her guts out. I planted a GPS chip in her handbag. And the handbag hasn't moved for almost two days. How do you think I got my hands on Jim Moriarty in the first place? Unfortunately I was stupid enough to let him walk… well, crawl free…"

"So it is true? He is in a wheelchair?"

"He is. And it's a wonderful sight. We dragged him around my… secret place, and he couldn't do a thing about it." Milverton leaned back in his chair. "What do you say, Holmesy? My freedom in exchange for Jim Moriarty and Sebastian Moran? I'll even throw the little lady in, as a special gift to your people."

Mycroft was tempted, but he knew better than to trust Milverton, "The other way round. You give me James Moriarty, Sebastian Moran and the sister, and as soon as I have them on a plane outside the country, you walk free."

Milverton nodded, "Very well. I've got no reason to distrust you. The GPS is connected to my laptop, which is in my flat. I suppose Scotland Yard will be there by now, but I trust you have men amongst them as well?"

"I have men everywhere, Mr Milverton."

* * *

><p>While Mycroft's plan got into motion, Jim and Sorcha were alone in Jim's house. Jim had sent Sebastian out for a kill in Scotland. Of course, the sniper had refused at first. <em>You trust Sherlock way too much, Jim. What if he rats you out to his brother after all? You'll be all alone here, you and Sorcha. What do you think they'll do to you both? <em>Jim had dismissed him, impatiently. He hated that Sebastian treated him sometimes like he couldn't properly defend himself, should the need arise. Which was of course nonsense. Jim was, even with his impairment now, perfectly able to fire a gun and kill wild game with his bare hands. So he just threw Sebastian out and spent the rest of the day in his bed, reading, after having transferred ten thousand pounds to Sophie's secret bank-account. He felt like resting now; after all, he hadn't rested properly since Charlie had abducted him. So he just lay on his bed, enjoying the silence again for a bit, while Sorcha tended to him.

* * *

><p>The day passed without anything happening. Sherlock had called him once, confirmed that he had found the stick, but that the laptop was missing. Of course Lestrade had let him into Milverton's flat without even questioning his motives. He was a bit concerned about the missing laptop, but had figured that one of Lestrade's people had taken it already (maybe even stolen it?). Jim didn't care too much about the laptop; the only thing that mattered to him was that Sherlock had gotten his stick, and Milverton would be off the streets for some considerable time. So he could as well lay back and enjoy… Sorcha. She buzzed around the house like a bee, cleaning, dusting, helping Jim to the toilet and back…. He was glad he didn't punish her too much. After all, she was the only one who cared enough about him to deal with all this.<p>

* * *

><p>Finally, it was already dark outside, he was fed up with her running around the place and working, so he called her, "Moran? I'd like to take a shower, would you mind helping me?"<p>

"Nothing I would like more." She grinned as she wheeled him into the bathroom, helped him into the shower and placed him on the handicap bench. "You want me to clean you, or do you want some privacy?"

"That depends on you entirely. For once, I wouldn't mind the help." He grinned, "But you do know I can't give you much in return. At least not like I used to."

"It doesn't matter. You give me so much more than that. Well, I'm being soppy today. Anyways, I'd love to wash your naked body and get nothing in return." She smiled back at him and helped him undress. "We could do this more often, you know?"

"Are you suggesting I smell?"

"No, I mean, sending Seb away and have some quality time."

"True. Why don't we do it more often?"

"Because I get too attached and you don't want to feel like you have an actual girlfriend. At least that's what you told me. The bruises look good."

"Ah, yeah, I remember. You know that if I turn the water now you'll be completely soaked within seconds, and all your clothes will just stick to your body, revealing everything?" He tilted his head. "Not that I would mind."

"I don't either… as long as the water is hot."

Jim only smiled and, without breaking eye contact with Sorcha, turned on the cold water, "I think I have to remind you of who is the boss here, Moran. If I say 'cold water', it'll be cold, and if I tell you to go swimming in the Atlantic Ocean at night, you will ask 'bikini or bathing suit?', are we clear on that?"

"Yes, Sir, of course. Now, which shower gel would your majesty prefer today?"

"Are you making fun of me, Moran?"

She grinned, "I wouldn't dare. Come on now, let's get on with it, the water is freaking icy."

"You could beg for hot water."

"Or I could just throw you off the bench and change the water temperature myself. Or, better yet, cuddle to you and take all of your body heat away. Anything, really." Her teeth were chattering by now as the cold water ran down her body.

"Or I could, and I think this is what I will do, sit here and _wait_ for you to beg. You think you can outlast me? I've spend most of my childhood in the cold because my stepfather thought it would be nice if I die of pneumonia. There is no way you can win this." But then his look softened and he raised the temperature, "But as much as I would love to see you begging, I cannot afford you getting sick. Thank me for that."

"I am most grateful, sir, for your heart of gold, and thank you for being so kind to your loyal servant. Now come on, let me touch you before I lose my mind."

"Can't let that happen. At least one of us should be sane."

* * *

><p>Outside, Martin Gerrard, one of Mycroft's most capable men, was bringing his team into position. He had clear orders; Moran could die, but Moriarty was to be brought in alive at all costs. Over twenty men, the best at what they did, were with Gerrard; all of them knew how important this was, all of them knew that James Moriarty was the most dangerous man in the whole world probably. They had to catch him now.<p>

* * *

><p><strong>Trouble trouble trouble...<strong>

And they _would_.


	18. I cried for you on the kitchen floor

**Since I guess you do not really want to read a long author's note now that things are heating up...  
><strong>

**Disclaimer: See chapter One, plus, title from this chapter taken from Amy Winehouse's _You know I'm no good_ **

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 17: I cried for you on the kitchen floor<br>**

_11:59 P.M. – One minute to midnight, 24 hours and 1 minute to a scandal_

Jim was lying in his bed, flat on his stomach, almost dozing away if it weren't for the talented hands currently massaging his back- and humming along to what Jim recognized was Cher.

"_I was born in the wagon of a travelling show, my mommah used to dance for the money they'd throw…_" (1)

Jim chuckled, "I seem to remember that your 'mommah' was a jeweller, and it was my ma who had to dance for money."

"Do you want me to play this on your funeral then for you?"

"Could there be anything more inappropriate than this song on a funeral?"

"Well, _Stayin' Alive_ would be."

"You never appreciated the classics…" He shifted his position as far as his legs would allow it. "All this Olly Murs Nonsense…"

"_So put another record on, play it on repeat, nothing really matters when we're dancing…_" (2) She let her fingers dance over Jim's back. "Don't worry though; you're still my number one."

"How very comforting…" He sighed deeply. "This is so relaxing. Thank God no one can see me now. James Moriarty getting a massage."

"You get manicures and wear suits that cost twice my paycheck. Would a massage be so out of the picture?"

"No, but that I am letting an amateur work me would be."

"Then feel free to consult any professional Thai Girl you'd like." Sorcha didn't stop, however.

"Nah. The state of my body would raise too many questions." He let his eyes flutter shut. "You may stop now."

"I'm good." She leaned over his body, placing a light kiss on his shoulder. "Just sleep… Jim." She swallowed the 'love' that had been on her lips already, knowing he would probably throw her off the bed if she pronounced it.

But he shook his head, "No, not the right time to sleep now. Could you bring me my laptop? I'd like to check something."

* * *

><p>"Okay, guys, now, you all know why we are here." Gerrard said. "This is Jim Moriarty's house. I'm sure every one of you remembers him. Mycroft Holmes wants us to catch him tonight. Now, we all know he won't be easy to catch. So I wish us all good luck." The men nodded. "We need to be fast. Just remember, if we catch him, it's gonna be promotion. A house in the country. Private schools for you little ones…. Ready?"<p>

"Ready, sir."

"Then **GO**!"

They barged into the house. Bullets were fired, screams of "CLEAR!" echoed through the big hall while Gerrard and two of his most capable men ran up the stairs, kicking in the door to the bedroom, guns pointed at the large bed.

* * *

><p>Jim chuckled, "Oh, Mycroft, still so predictable." He was still lying on his stomach, arms crossed below his head, eyes resting on the screen of his laptop, watching the men invading his bedroom.<p>

Sorcha needed a while to find her voice, "You knew it?"

"Of course."

"That's why you suddenly said we should change house?"

"Yeah. I love how you follow orders without questioning my motives. That's why I wanted Sebastian out, because he frequently wants _answers_."

"But how? How could you possibly know that?"

Jim flipped the laptop close and wrestled himself on his back, looking up at Sorcha, "Remember when you were in Milverton's bathroom? You forgot your handbag somewhere. When I got back from my stay with Milverton, I was thinking about how he could know where I live, so, when you were asleep, I checked your handbag and found a GPS chip."

"Oh my God…"

"You need to be more careful. Anyways, when you told me Lestrade had picked up Milverton, I knew it would only be a matter of time until Mycroft would come into play. And here we are." He smiled proudly. "Ah, the joy of fooling Mycroft Holmes. Hand me my phone, Moran."

"It's my fault Milverton got you? Oh, Jim, I am so sorry…"

"Stop talking and start walking, and bring me my phone, Moran. And really, it's okay. Just be more careful next time."

When she finally had overcome her stuttering and Jim held his phone in his hand, he typed,

"_It's all over, I'm standing pretty, in this dust that was a city." _(3)_ Love, JM xxx_

* * *

><p>"<em>It's all over, I'm standing pretty, in this dust that was a city." <em>(3)_ Love, JM xxx_

The text reached Mycroft before Gerrard could call him. Of course. Thinking back, it had been too easy. He had made a mistake in underestimating Jim Moriarty, just because he had heard the man was in a wheelchair. That would not happen again.

"_The war machine springs to life, opens up one eager eye" _(3) _Don't get too comfortable wherever you are. MH._

* * *

><p>"<em>The war machine springs to life, opens up one eager eye" <em>(3) _Don't get too comfortable wherever you are. MH._

"Funny, Mr Holmes. Catch me if you can." Jim put the phone on his bedside table and cuddled into his sheets. "Well, that was a fun day. Now I'm knackered. Moran?"

"Yes, boss?"

"Stay here for the night."

"Again? Oh my god! You're not Jim Moriarty, you're Richard Brook!"

Jim actually had to laugh, "Yeah, I think I'm having more issues than I thought so far. But no, I just think it would be safer for you to not go home tonight. Besides, you could wake me with a massage again…"

Sorcha nodded and slid under the sheets, "Anytime. I'll even make you breakfast."

"Such a good servant…"

"_Never had schoolin' but he taught me well with his smooth_ Irish _style_…" (1)

* * *

><p>Jim was fast asleep soon, but Sorcha couldn't find sleep at all, not even when watching the fragile frame of Jim, soundly asleep. Unable to fight the desire to touch him, she rolled on her side and placed a hand on Jim's leg, knowing that wouldn't wake him up. First Milverton, now Mycroft Holmes. Two people who had hurt Jim, two people she would love to kill. And if Jim hadn't been that much of a brain, she would have led them both to him, and not only Milverton. A stupid mistake. An amateur mistake that could have cost Jim's life. She should have never let her handbag alone. But Milverton's presence and the knowledge of what was to come had clouded her senses, and Jim had had to pay for it. The fact that he didn't kill her for it was more than surprising, but she knew deep inside that he was still thankful for her friendship back when he had had nothing, and therefore she still had some kind of a special status among his followers, pretty much like Sebastian. Still, it didn't comfort her the slightest. She let her hand wander over his leg. A part of her wished she could be the one to kill Mycroft Holmes when the day came, but Jim would probably want that pleasure all for himself. Of course. Mycroft, in Sorcha's eyes at least, was the one responsible for Jim's condition. And every evening when she helped him out of his clothes and brought him to bed, she would see the scars those brutish bastards had left him with, and hatred would rise inside her, so strong that it was likely to kill her at some point. How could anybody just hurt this beautiful body, even when they knew the dark soul that lay beneath it? Dark soul… They always made him look worse than he was, really. He ruled his empire with an iron fist, and anybody who pissed him off was sure to regret it. But some people, like she and Sebastian, they knew the real Jim. The man stripped of the fancy suit, the bare soul. And it would have surprised anybody who didn't know it that, deep inside, Jim Moriarty was a good guy. He had a sense of honour, and had the world given him a chance when he was young, he would have turned out differently. Sorcha let her fingers dance over his thigh. She had loved him from the beginning on. The moment she had seen him first. That little bit of extra soul, the fight in his eyes and the way his never once lowered his head even when it was pushed into the dirt, always sure he was meant to survive, all of this had drawn Sorcha towards him, much to the dismay of her brother and her parents. But teenagers always think that fighting for love is romantic, very Victorian novel. And no novel ever tells the teenagers how destructive love can be if it remains unrequited. Moments like this, Sorcha thought, were what she breathed for. Just being with Jim, bit of flirting here, bit of joking there, and back when Jim could walk the occasional quickie. She smiled a bit when Jim suddenly sighed deeply, grabbed her hand and pulled her closer to him. She inhaled his intoxicating smell – shampoo, Le Mâle, and Jim Moriarty- and closed her eyes.<p>

Only when she was almost asleep a thought crept into her dreams: _it's dark in here. I was touching his leg. He's asleep… how could he find my hand so easily? Oh, a rabbit…._

* * *

><p>(1) Cher – Gypsies, Tramps and Thieves<p>

(2) Olly Murs – My heart skips a beat

(3) Goldfinger / Nena – 99 red balloons

**No profit made**

* * *

><p><strong>Fluff. <strong>


	19. Want the same thing where we lay

**Disclaimer: see chapter one, plus, title for this chapter taken from Amy Winehouse's _In my bed_  
><strong>

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 18: Want the same thing where we lay, otherwise mine's a different way<strong>

_7:02 A.M. – 16 hours and 58 minutes to a scandal_

Sherlock was already awake when John walked into the living room, "Morning. Why are you grinning like this? Still because of the stick?"

"Yes. And because Mycroft is in a bad mood."

John rolled his eyes, "Not this childish feud again. What did you do to piss Mycroft off?"

"Oh, not me. Jim." He told John the story. "I actually kind of admire Jim for this. It's not easy beating Mycroft."

"You always admired Jim."

"True. An equal. I'm already looking forward to the time when we can face each other again."

"As long as it doesn't end up in two pretended suicides…" John yawned, "Have you called Rakesha already?"

"I tried, but she won't pick up her phone. Well, I suppose it doesn't matter. She'll find out early enough that Milverton is in custody, and that he can't use the stick. I talked to Lestrade earlier, and he said that they will in fact charge him for rape. Jim's actress must be very good. Or Anderson very stupid."

"I could always go and visit Rakesha…" John offered while sipping his tea.

"That won't be necessary. I need you by my side today; Lestrade told me there's a nice murder somewhere in Brighton, we'll go there. He's sending a police car." His phone rang. "That's probably them… Yes, Lestrade?... What? You can't be serious? He's a rapist. She did what?... I see. No. No, I suddenly got a headache. You'll have to find this murderer alone." He hung up. "That's unfortunate."

"What?"

"The woman Moriarty paid…" He dialled a number. "It's Sherlock. Is Jim around?"

* * *

><p>Jim listened to Sherlock's report without interrupting him, then he hung up without saying good-bye. Sorcha knew better than to ask what was up when she saw the look in her boss's eyes: pure fury. So she decided to just prepare breakfast and wait until Jim told her what was up.<p>

It came faster then she thought when he hissed through gritted teeth, "Milverton is being set free later today."

Sorcha handed him a plate with two toasts and some jam, "How come?"

"Sophie. She went to the police this morning and told them it had been consensual." His hand made a fist, "I need to get her in…"

"Let me talk to her. You just have breakfast." She walked into the kitchen to get up cup of coffee for her and Jim and called Sophie, "It's Sorcha. What happened?" She listened to the woman on the other line. "I see. No, no… I'm sure he'll understand. Don't worry. Get well soon." She shook her head when she hung up and walked back to Jim, handing him the cup. "She was attacked yesterday afternoon. By four or five people, she couldn't tell. They… they raped her the whole day until she caved in. It must have been Milverton's men. She apologizes and hopes that you won't hate her."

Jim's hand paused in midway to his lips, his fingers crumbling the toast it was holding. "Bastard. How did he manage to contact them?"

"Probably his lawyer." Sorcha was trembling. "I can't believe it. Now he will walk free." Jim only nodded. "Will he come for us again, now?"

Jim shrugged, "Let him come. This time, I'll be ready." He looked up at her. "Can I trust you to bring Sophie to a safe place?"

"Sure. Thank you for not wanting to kill her."

Jim shook his head, "No. I couldn't do it. I know how she feels, after all. And, funny enough, Mycroft Holmes is the common denominator. Tell her that if there's anything she needs, she is to call you. Hospital, therapy, I'll pay for it."

Sorcha hesitated for a second, but then hugged Jim, "You are the best, Jim." Then she said, "Can I ask you something?"

"Sure."

"Is it possible that you got some sensation back in your legs?"

Jim frowned, "What are you suggesting?"

"Nothing. It's just… when you were asleep yesterday, I didn't want to wake you up, but I felt like touching you, so I… kind of caressed your leg. And you suddenly grabbed my hand and pulled me into your arms… I was just hoping…"

"Do it again."

"What?"

"Touch me." Sorcha nodded and slid her fingers under the sheets, caressing his thigh, putting all her hopes into the touch.

But the light that had suddenly shone into Jim's eyes dimmed again, "Nothing. Are you sure you weren't dreaming?" When she nodded he closed his eyes, "Shite. I was… you know, for a second only… hoping…"

Sorcha didn't hesitate this time when she hugged him, "Don't worry, Jim. It's a good sign. It means there's still some feeling left. It will come back. Shall I call the doctor and ask what it means?"

Jim shook his head while laying an arm around her shoulder, "No. They'll just say what they always say…" His phone rang. "Hullo? Sebbie, you're back already? That was fast. Yeah, sorry, I completely forgot to tell you. No, everything's fine, we're in the Tottenham flat. Mycroft's men. No, I am not mental. Do what you feel like doing, but it has to wait. I need you at Scotland Yard at 2. P.M. this afternoon. Milverton was in custody over the night, but he's gonna be released today. I'm tired of playing games. Shoot him. And please, try to get away without your usual stay at Pentonville this time. Later." He hung up, "Didn't you tell Sebastian about us being here?"

"I might have forgotten it along the way… You want to shoot Milverton?"

"Yes. Sherlock has the stick, his insurance is Mycroft Holmes, and he won't fuzz over a dead informant, and there is no reason why I should let Milverton go. If only to send little Sophie a picture of the dead body of the man who ordered this attack on her… My present." He noticed Sorcha was still in his arms, apparently trying to inhale him like she always did with food when she was starving. "Come on, Moran, get up. Time to get dressed."

* * *

><p>Sebastian was fuming as he walked through the supermarket closest to Scotland Yard. Living with Jim Moriarty was never easy, but this past week, it had reached a new point of insanity, culminating in the events of this morning. Sebastian had come back from this ridiculous job that anybody could have done, to find his home completely destroyed, and no trace of either his boss or his sister. The few seconds that it had taken him to call Jim and hear his voice had shown him very much how human he was in the end. Worry. <em>Fear<em>. That had been replace now with the urge to smack Jim across the face. But well, even that would be gone the moment he would see Milverton drop to the dirty London concrete, dead, killed by _his_ bullet.

He didn't watch his steps and bumped into someone. He apologized before he recognized the man. Watson. "Well, good morning, Captain."

"Colonel. How's the shoulder?"

"It's very good. Thank you again. What are you doing here? I'm sure this isn't the closest supermarket to Baker Street? Or are you running away from your boss?"

"Sherlock is not my boss. And no, I am not running away." John sighed, "Milverton is going to be released soon. I don't know why, but I feel like I should be there. What are you doing here, anyways?"

Sebastian's grin, revealing his chipped tooth, was so cold it sent shivers through John, "I'm here to make sure Milverton won't be able to cherish his freedom for very long."

_And of course you wouldn't be able to cherish it for very long… The words Moriarty had said to Sherlock at the pool. _"You're going to shoot him?"

"Yes. And I would be much indebted to you if you don't tell your friends at Scotland Yard."

John was torn over it. Sebastian was a criminal, but hell, during this last week John had more than once longed to put a bullet into Milverton's head. "I'll just pretend I didn't hear it. Does Jim really think this is a good idea?"

"Apparently." Sebastian checked his watch. "I need to get ready." He hesitated, "Watson, I admit I don't like you or Sherlock very much. But you are a man of honour. I just wanted you to know that."

John couldn't hide the proud smile on his face, "So are you. And I don't like you two, either. Good luck for your mission."

"Thank you." Sebastian saluted and turned away, ready to end a life.

John walked in the opposite direction, not ready to stop Sebastian Moran. It was betraying his principles, to let a man whom he knew was out to kill just do his work. But he had once killed a man for Sherlock. Sherlock had the stick. Milverton had not hesitated to kidnap Jim Moriarty, and he would not hesitate to kidnap Sherlock. He was protecting Sherlock. And this eased his conscience. And if Moran should happen to fail… John ran his hand over the gun concealed in his jacket… he wouldn't hesitate to kill again to protect Sherlock. And Rakesha. And Africa.

* * *

><p><strong>Oh, John's priorities<strong>.


	20. I lick the gun when I'm done

**Disclaimer: See chapter one, plus, title of this chapter taken from Rihanna's _G4L._  
><strong>

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 19: I lick the gun when I'm done<strong>

_1:57 P.M.- 3 minutes to a bullet_

Many people were mistaken about Sebastian Moran. They always thought that he was good with his rifle, but not that good at close range. That was a mistake: While Sebastian preferred the rifle, he knew how to fire a gun. He was probably not as good a shot as John Watson, but he could hit a target at any distance. He had thought about using his rifle, but on such short notice, it was almost impossible to find the right place to fire it from. So he had switched to his handgun, around which his fingers were now tightened. He would shoot Milverton the moment he set foot out of the building. He felt the familiar churn of his guts, the moments prior to a murder, the moments he cherished so much.

* * *

><p>John didn't know where Moran was hiding. Of course not; the Colonel was known for his abilities to hide in plain sight. But John knew he must be somewhere on the ground, not on a rooftop, not in a building opposite the Scotland Yard building. He could practically feel his footsteps.<p>

* * *

><p>The door opened. Charlie Milverton stepped out.<p>

* * *

><p>And Sebastian's gun jammed. "What the….?" He looked at it, "Come on, this can't be true." He tried again, but to no avail. "God damn it! Jim will fucking make me into pencils! Come on, baby, stop this!" His eyes were following Milverton who remained standing on the steps, letting his eyes wander over the street. Although it was in the middle of the day, not many people were walking around. As if the world wanted him to kill Milverton, and only God was against his plan. And he had no back up gun. Jim would kill him.<p>

And then suddenly, Milverton dropped. Sebastian lowered the gun when he heard the sound of a body hitting the floor. The look in Milverton's eyes was broken.

John had seen it too. For a second, he had thought that he had been mistaken, that Moran had his rifle with him after all.

But then he saw it. A woman, dressed in a beige trench coat, long black braids falling over her shoulders. A gun in her hand. A silencer. _Rakesha. _

Moran recognized her from the pictures he had seen. A beautiful woman. Fingers clenched around the handle of the gun, knuckles white, arms shaking, body trembling.

Rakesha Reynolds had killed Charles Milverton. She had taken matters into her hands. Sebastian didn't know how she knew Milverton was to be released, he didn't know where she had gotten the gun from.

But he felt the despair.

And the last bit of humanity in Sebastian Moran drove him to do what he did now.

Within seconds, he was by her side, "Give me the gun."

She looked at him, dooey eyes… _So much like Jim's… _"I… I…"

"Listen, woman. I'm not with the police, I was here to kill Milverton, but my gun jammed. Now, give me your gun and run."

"But I can't…"

"Come on, Rakesha, come with me…" _John Watson. Where did he come from? _"Let the man take care of this." He turned to Sebastian, "What are you going to do?"

"Get rid of the gun. Hurry up, run." Sebastian had to use all his strength to get Rakesha's fingers off the gun. "Bring her away. Don't leave her alone. He will call him."

_Jim will call Sherlock… _"I will. Take care, Sir." Sebastian gave him a smile and, with the grace of a cat, ran. John laid his arm around Rakesha's waist. "Listen, you need to come with me, Rakesha. Everything will be alright. You can trust me. And you can trust him."

Rakesha looked at John, fright in her eyes, "I killed a man…"

"No, you didn't. Listen to me, you did not kill anybody. Some guy killed him and ran off with the gun. You have done nothing. Do you understand me?"

It felt like an eternity before she nodded, "I understand."

"Good, now, let's get the hell away from here before anybody notices."

Two minutes later, John heard the screaming, "AAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHH!" Two minutes were enough to be in safe distance. Nobody had seen them.

Milverton was dead. It was over.

* * *

><p>In the evening, Sebastian, Jim, Sherlock, John and Sorcha were sitting in Jim's house, sipping tea. John was the first to say something, "That was an honourable thing you did, Colonel."<p>

Sebastian shrugged, "Damsels in distress. Everybody has a weak spot. I don't look the part, but I am actually a gentleman."

Sherlock rolled his eyes, and even Jim murmured, "I think I preferred it when you two were hating each other… So, what now? I guess this time it is safe to assume that it is finally over. Or does your brother have anything to say?"

Sherlock shook his head, "No. To him, Milverton is replaceable. He just pretended he was important to him so he could get you. I destroyed the stick. Nothing can be traced back to my client. Except the gun."

"The gun is destroyed. Your client is safe." Jim said. "So is everybody involved." Sophie was in Italy right now, licking her wounds at the beach. "I guess this is it then…"

"It is…" Sherlock locked eyes with Jim. "No failure in your statistics."

"Have you doubted that, sexy?" Jim grinned. "Well, it was a pleasure working with you. There's the door. Tomorrow, Sherlock, we will be on opposite sites again. And I can't say I regret it."

"Neither do I." Sherlock got up. "Thank you, nevertheless."

"You're welcome."

Sherlock nodded courtly and turned to leave, "Catch. You. Later."

"No, you won't."

* * *

><p><strong>Don't worry. There's an epilogue following.<strong>


	21. There's a fire starting in my heart

**Disclaimer: see chapter one, plus, title for the epilogue taken from Adele's _Rolling in the deep_  
><strong>

* * *

><p><strong>Epilogue: There's a fire starting in my heart<br>**

The house was blown to pieces; a little gift to Mycroft Holmes, who might have hoped Jim would come back at some point, and be caught. Two of Mycroft's men, who were guarding the house, lost their life that night.

Jim, however, had other problems. The whole day was exciting enough so he could forget what Sorcha had said. But now, as Sebastian was out, probably rewarding himself with a nice and docile woman, and Sorcha was doing the laundry, Jim was lying on his bed, naked apart from his boxers, and watching his toes. He would have tried to tell his big toe to wiggle, but he knew this wasn't a movie, and the toe probably wouldn't listen. Yet, he believed that Sorcha wasn't mistaken. She reacted to his every touch, always had, and if she said he had touched her, then he had. Which meant that he had felt her touch first. Was it possible that, as soon as his mind shut down, like in sleep, his body forgot that it didn't want to work? He had to ask a doctor about it. But right now, he only wanted a little sign. His hand reached into his bedside table and brought out a needle. Without hesitating, he buried the needle into his thigh. He didn't flinch. No pain. He brought it out again and ran it over his shin, drawing a line of blood. Nothing. He threw the needle away and leaned back into his pillow, moaning.

Sorcha was in the room within a second, "What's the matter?"

"I was just moaning." He rolled his eyes. "You're better than any alarm button."

She noticed the blood on his legs, "Anything?"

"Nothing. I could as well just amputate them here and now."

But Sorcha shook her head, "Time, Jim. Give it time. I'll go get the disinfectant."

When she came back, and started patching Jim up, he murmured, "How come you still believe, when even I don't?"

She shrugged, "It's what I am. An optimist. You've been through so much shit and got over it, now, who's to say you can't get over this?"

"This time it's different. It always used to be a damaged body with a healthy mind. Well, more or less. This time it's the other way round. And…" he hesitated. "It scares me to no end."

"I can understand that. I am scared, too." She reached out and patted his hand, "But, soppy as it sounds, you're not alone. Seb and I are there, and we won't leave you."

"Even though you have to clean me up and everything?"

"Yeah. So what, other people get cleaned up as well by people that love them. They are generally older than you, but fuck it." She put the bloody wipes away. "I'll go and get us something to eat. How do you feel about pizza and red wine?"

"I'm not hungry. But you go ahead."

"You need to eat something, Jim."

"No, I don't. Now go."

* * *

><p><em>Pain. So much pain. Mycroft Holmes. He was watching. Watching as his brutes were slowly beating the life out of Jim. Beating, if only they had stopped at the beating. But they dealt a hell so much bigger than this to him…<em>

Jim startled from his sleep. It took him a while to realise that Mycroft Holmes wasn't here, and neither were his brutes. The only people present were Sorcha, who had curled into a ball on the couch, and, as he could see from the light in the kitchen, Sebastian, who was probably again ignoring the smoking ban in the house. He grabbed the first thing in his reach (his phone) and threw it at Sorcha.

She almost fell off the couch, "What? What the hell…"

"I need to use the loo."

"Oh yeah. Sure…" She wiped her face and then staggered over to his bed. "You could just call Sebastian, you know. He's awake…" She put the lights on. "And I love how he always tries to hide the fact that he has been smoking in the kitchen by eating the first thing he sees…"

Jim pulled the sheets away, "I don't think… what the fuck?" There was blood on his bed. Not much, but it was there. And it came from the scratch on his leg. "What happened?"

Sorcha took a closer look. "Looks like you scratched it." She brushed her fingers over it. "Feel anything?"

Jim didn't answer at first, but then he said, his voice only a whisper, "It itches… A little."

* * *

><p><strong>This is it. Another story finished. Many thanks to those of you who reviewed. The next story should be up soon. Love you all, fergie<strong>


End file.
